another war
by timetohavefun
Summary: Set in a futuristic world where America has lost it and decided that the world needs to be conquered for the sake of world peace. this story follows England as he tries to prevent America from winning, hoping all the while to save America from himself
1. the sky was red

Right... Disclaimer: If Hetalia belonged to me, it would have a lot more blood and fighting. so i don't own it.

The Sky Turned Red: Chapter 1

The wasteland, which was once the ground, was the man's only company as he moved. His feet flailing as they slipped on gravel and liquid (sticky, wet, and red so red)… with a gasp he pulled himself together. If he fell here, all would come to naught. For the others, for himself, for the past, and for the future they had dreamed of. He. Had. To. Live.

Arthur glanced around; he still could not believe that Alfred had done this. That he had this in him: this capacity for utter destruction that Arthur had seen released only once before, on Kiku. Still. Hadn't Alfred wept bitterly in Arthur's arms when he had done so? Had he not begged for the ability to take it back? When had he changed so much? This, however, was nothing less than a declaration of war. The world would once again have to choose a side. Yao or Alfred, China or America and Alfred had made his intentions clear with his attack on Russia, "join me or fall by my hand". Poor Ivan. For years Arthur had been by Alfred's side. He was his (friend? Father? Brother?) ally, but this time, he was sure that he (Arthur) could not condone this destruction.

Arthur would not ally with America this time. He needed to warn… who? Who was dear enough to Arthur that he would risk his life, lands, and people to warn? Unbidden America's face popped into Arthur's mind, and he brushed it away. Why should Arthur not shut his little island off from the world and plead neutrality? Why should he embroil himself in a battle that would gain him nothing but the pain of losing what he had? Suddenly, France's face came to mind, his face from Dunkirk, from Normandy, from too-long-ago-to-ever-mention-but-still-there. The smiles, the laughter, the pain, the hatred, the bitterness, the betrayal, sweet-and-sour in Arthur's mind. for where was England without France? Spain's face took France's place, Spain, his friend? His enemy? Both perhaps, and neither. They had been enough to one another to accept that life would never allow them to be free. Spain who sailed against him on the seas, who was a good lover but a better enemy, who smiled as he beat Arthur and smiled as he was beaten. Who shrugged his shoulders and declared that this was life. The victories were sweet memories for Arthur, but he even welcomed his own small defeats. He could hardly let Spain die; it would take the sweetness out of life!

Then there was Prussia, who had been there a long time. Prussia who had fought beside him in the Crusades, who had allied with him after… Prussia who always understood, who had given everything he had to save his brother and was barely clinging to existence by sheer strength of will. Prussia who would fight till the end to protect his brother, like England (Arthur) should, like Arthur had done before. He couldn't lose Prussia, not now. Finally, there was Canada, who was closest to America. Who was in danger. Little Matthew who he had raised, whom he had loved desperately, and cared for as much as Alfred. Last, Arthur thought of Russia, who had lost both his sisters with his defiance of Alfred, who was lying in a coma bombed out of his mind. Ivan, who was scared of being alone, who was scary and powerful and related to the devil, but just wanted to be loved.

Damn. He would have to fight wouldn't he? It would have been so bloody easy to hide and let someone else take responsibility, but he loved them all too much to let that happen. His brothers were going to murder him for this, but they would fight. Damn damn damn. He was going to war. Against Alfred. Again. This time, he would not be allowed the luxury of throwing his weapons down and walking away. This time it was do or die. Kill or be killed. Damn it all Alfred. Why?

A/n: i'd really appreciate reviews for this story. it's my first in this fandom.


	2. Telling France

Another war chapter 2: Telling France

Francis sat casually in his parlour. He sipped his wine, lost in thought. He had been told he had a visitor but could not for the life of him think who it could be. So it was with great surprise and well earned mistrust that he welcomed Arthur into his home. Immediately, he noticed that something was wrong. England was in considerable distress and seemed uncomfortable (in a way that had nothing to do with the frenchman's not so covert flirtation.) "whatever is the matter, mon ami?" francis asked, genuinely intrigued by this behaviour, England looked up, "it's America…" France sighed, it was always Amerique with Arthur, "what did he do this time? Did he insult your cooking again, because if he did, it was well deserved and…" England cut in, "no Francis, it wasn't something so trivial as that. Please just hear me out." The combination of Arthur's use of his human name and the mention of cooking insults to be trivial alerted france to the severity of the situation. "tell me." He requested, "America has declared war on China. When Russia refused to ally with America, he proceeded to bomb Ukraine and Belarus till they ceased to exist, following which he bombed Russia. Ivan is in a coma. The world is at war." France swore, "Has amerique taken leave of the little sense he possessed? What of yourself Angleterre? Will you side with your precious Alfred in this war? Will you condone this?" "Shut it France, do you think I'd be warning you if that were the case? I condone this as much as you do. I plan to oppose America. I know he plans to conquer the world using this war as a front, I'm here because I cannot and will not let you fall." France hesitated, "beautiful worlds as always mon petit lapin, but can you back them up? Can you kill amerique?" England had tears in his eyes, "If I must, Francis, I will kill him with my own hands. I will not hand my people over to a psychopath with delusions of adequacy." A snort escaped france, "Very well angleterre. You have my loyalty, shall we create an alliance?" a small smile graced England's face, "not yet, old friend. Let me take control of my nation first. I cannot leave this war in the hands of a short lived, half baked human leader who is easily swayed." "How like you, cher, to speak with passionate bitterness. Go to it then, and bonne chance."

England rose from his seat, sparing just a glance for France and started towards the door. He paused for a moment and looked back, "Francis, do you think my brothers will kill me for this?" his voice almost pleading denial, "Ah, mon cher, I cannot speak to your brothers' murderous tendencies, but they will eventually understand your determination." He sighed, "Yes, but the question is how many bones will they break before comprehension dawns on them." He smiled bitterly as he left, the door shutting softly behind him, almost ominous in its quiet. "Such is life, mon ami, regardless of our wishes, it progresses. Once again, we must go to war." France shook his head and raised his half-forgotten wine glass in a parody if a toast, "to life, may it end someday." He downed the glass in a single swig and buried his head in his hands, "please let it end someday, I grow tired of this endless struggle."

He sat in silence for a time, shoulders shaking, eyes dim. When he rose, he would show no weakness, would hide the strain behind a lecherous smirk and exaggerated gestures. None would notice his bitter fear except his ancient rival. He would stand for England, for his friends, but mostly for England. For what is France without England? (and what is Francis without Arthur? He will never say it aloud, never hint it, but without Arthur there would be no one in the world who could completely understand him and Francis is scared of being that alone.)


	3. Brother Bothers

Another war: Chapter 3- Brother Bothers

Crossing the Chunnel was not a real problem, but England was preoccupied with other things. Therefore, he managed to bump into walls, people, trolleys, and other such wondrous things. He would have to go to Scotland, or request his brother's presence. Both were daunting propositions seeing as Scotland's temper was not to be underestimated. He had, in past fits of anger, nearly beaten Arthur to death. Of course their relationship had improved since then but…

Arthur shivered at the thought of enraging not only Scotland, but wales and Ireland as well. He feared that the consequences of such an action would result in a painful death. All the same, it had to be done. He sighed, at least wales would be at his home, and if he could convince wales, Scotland might not murder him. So it was with trembling limbs that Arthur entered his London home, which he shared with wales.

"Brother, are you home?" he called as he entered the house, wales replied, "in the kitchen Artie, what is it you need?" "I need to speak with you, its rather serious." Said Arthur as he sat down on the sofa, running his fingers through his hair, "leave the food, I doubt anyone will have an appetite when this is over." Wales made his way over, worry clearly etched on his face, "what happened Arthur?" wales' voice was cold, "did you mess something up?" Arthur shook his head, " 'Twould be simpler were that the case. Please brother, listen to me." "for you to use "'Twould" something must be wrong, so tell me what happened." So Arthur told, recounting the event as he had to France, and telling wales his fears about the upcoming war. Wales listened, face grave, "I agree Arthur, we cannot leave this war in human hands. I will aid you in taking control, but can you do it? Can you kill the child you raised?" Arthur looked at Wales, and nodded, "I am a nation first and a person second. My people and lands come before my own feelings. I will do what I must." Wales' face furrowed with a sympathetic frown. He opened his arms, "for now, you can be a person Arthur, just for now." Arthur fell gladly into his brother's arms, burying his face in his brother's shirtfront, he wept. Wales just held him, running his fingers through Arthur's hair and letting him cry out his pain, wasted love, hopes, and dreams.

Arthur had fallen asleep from crying, and wales realised he had a job to do. Picking up the phone, he called Scotland and explained the situation to him. Scotland's first reaction was rage at their brother for getting them involved, but wales calmed him down with a combination of logic and stern words. He then informed Scotland that England had cried himself to sleep, which worried the Scot. England rarely cried. Preferring to let grief turn into rage at the nearest inanimate object. The last time England had cried was during the blitz, bitter tears at losing so many of his people, fear of his own death and rage at his own weakness. It scared Scotland that England would weep like a heartbroken child at having to fight America, but then it was always America that made England cry. After promising that he would inform Ireland of the situation, Scotland hung up. He placed his hands in his hair and tugged in frustration. They could fight, but would they win? Cursing, the scot made his way to his personal bar, to ponder the question over a drink. Then he realised that he had to call Ireland and inform him of the situation. It was going to be a long day.

Ireland was having a good day. He had finished most of his paperwork, had not yelled at his boss, and had met a really sweet human girl at a café. Then Scotland called and everything went to hell. The information itself was worrisome, but since Ireland was not part of the union, would not have forced him to action. There was one little detail though. His government was in no way strong enough to go to war. However, what worried Ireland more was England. England wept? Like a child who had lost everything? That was so out of character that it worried Ireland. Normally England was all business, nation first, not emotional. He had a bad temper and held grudges, but that was a family trait. He was not normally open enough to break down in front of anyone and yet the evidence was there. Damn that America. He always hurt Arthur. After all, England may suffer but as Arthur… as Arthur (just a human) England must be heartbroken.

With a sad sigh, Ireland set his drink aside and rose. He needed to visit his little brother. Not that he was worried or anything, it was purely political. He didn't care that his brother was all weepy and hurt. He didn't. Really.

Ireland spoke to his bosses, preparing them for the upcoming war, and suggested (rather forcefully) that they may consider returning to the union temporarily at least. He also mentioned that he would like to make the decisions pertaining to this war. If he made use of his fists while making his point, no one said a word. So off he went to visit his brothers, who were all camped out at England's London home.


	4. A Meeting

Chapter 4: A meeting.

The mood in Arthur's London home was such that one could have cut the tension in the air with a knife, the atmosphere held not only fear and expectation but also worry, stress and loving concern (though all of them would deny it.) Arthur's brothers had arrived (much to his horror) and made themselves comfortable on the various sofas and armchairs that adorned England's living room. In true Kirkland style, they had each chosen locations in order to ensure that their youngest sibling would be trapped from all sides. Arthur's face was pale with worry, eyes red from weeping and dull from loss. Arthur may have been the one to raise the topic of war, but the ball was now in his brothers' court. They could and would ensure that success was achieved. "First things first Artie, how do we take control of the land from our governments, without starting a civil war, if at all possible." Arthur looked up, slightly surprised, "Surely you know Al! We will use the sword in the stone." Alasdair (aka Scotland) looked amused, "Using the legend you left behind little brother? How devious of you." Arthur allowed a smirk to settle on his face, "why did you think I left the bloody thing. All that nonsense about Mordred being my son, and Morgana being my half sister… I left the stupid thing in place in case I needed to return in a time of need." Alasdair's grin lit up the room, "that's my brother." He said happily, clapping Arthur on his back. Arthur blushed, "Merlin helped" he muttered, glancing at wales, "and he will be by my side this time too. Hopefully without needing the stupid disguise this time." Wales smiled gently, "if you wish it Artie, I will be beside you."

Everyone now turned to look at Seamus, and he raised his eyebrow, "I can convince my government to return to the union, and maybe to accept royal rule, but it may not work as a union in the long run. England, if you want to win this, you may need to return to your empire days. Offer royal rule for the duration of the war and allow them governments after. Is that not logical?" Arthur shuddered, "another empire Shea? I don't know if I can bear the weight of that alone. At least let the union stand. If you lot are with me, it may be possible." Alasdair shook his head, "I agree with Shea, the weight of an empire may be heavy but you are the only one among us I would trust to bear it. We will stand beside you, but you will be the one to bear the responsibility, the weight of an empire full of people. If you are willing to do that, we will support you." Wales smiled, "A speech Al? How unlike you, I always thought you preferred action over words." Alasdair shook his head, "sometimes words are irreplaceable, dear brother. After all, how else can I show my support for my baby brother?" Arthur scowled, "I am not a baby, damn you. I've lived millennia, and I have fought before." Seamus nodded, "yes, but how many of those wars broke your heart? It's obvious that you don't want to hurt the brat, but you will anyway. For once, England, let us help you." There was nothing Arthur could say to that, he had long wished for his brothers' willing support. To have them give it now… finally they were acting like a family. He inclined his head, "thank you. I really appreciate this, Al, Shea, Merlin. You are probably right about the empire as well. The question now is, how do we get the others to accept it." Scotland nodded, "we need allies. France will probably accept without too much bickering, so will Austria, Hungary, and a lot of the former Soviet Union. The problem will be Spain and the Italy brothers. What will we do about them? Also, I worry that Germany will probably surrender to avoid war." Arthur shook his head, "leave Spain to me. I can talk him into this. The Italy brothers on the other hand… we'll have to wait and see. Germany is a problem, he's stubborn." Wales looked between his brothers, "wasn't there once an East Germany?" "Who? Prussia? Oh! Prussia, I forgot! We can talk to him. He'll hate the idea of surrender and he wants a country… if we can establish him as a power, the threat will be neutralized. That is, if he can conquer Germany…" Arthur smiled. Ireland shook his head fondly, "Prussia will listen to you, and if we support him, he will win. The problem is that Prussia was always a Kingdom, and he has no king at the moment." Arthur grinned, "Ahh, but Gilbert is there. I always thought he'd make a splendid King. He is the nation after all." "Very devious little brother." "Don't patronize me, Ireland." "Stop arguing, Arthur, Shea." Called Wales, "I want to make lunch; you will all be eating, correct?" the three others gulped nervously; pissing Wales off when he wanted to cook was a bad idea. "Yes Brother, we'll all be eating," answered Arthur.

By the evening, the brothers had established a plan to ensure a swift transfer of power to Arthur, and had typed a message to gilbert. They had also sent messages to all the nations they planned to make a part of their empire, save Spain to whom Arthur had written, asking that they meet privately once power was transferred. It all seemed so simple now, when the people were dissatisfied with the government and the world was calling for a change. It just felt too easy, and left a bitter taste in the mouth. Still, it was all they could do, for themselves and for their people. All the same, the brothers felt they had somehow failed in allowing their people to come to this. By nightfall, all four men craved their beds, feeling more tired than they had in centuries.


	5. Mad World

Chapter 5: Mad World.

The transfer of power had gone as smoothly as planned, with the media eating up the pulling of the Sword from the Stone. They called it a modern day fairytale, made to save England from itself. Arthur snorted, if only they knew. He missed the times he had spent with his various kings and queens, when he could share inside jokes with them, laugh with them, live with them. He wandered the palace alone now. The bitter taste of loneliness was the result of his own choices, wasn't it? There were no longer any royals. He felt like a remnant of a different time as he took the throne and abolished the government. He felt like a pretender. A traitor. Like he should have done this years ago, like he never should have done it at all. The echoes of the past were loud in the halls; drawing him into memories he tried to forget. Now was not the time for regrets, or for personal issues. He had a duty to perform.

His brothers were going to swear allegiance to the crown as representatives of the various countries in the union, giving them power over their own lands as colonies of the British Empire (all over again). A century ago he would have been glad of his return to power, but this… Later, France would be visiting to negotiate a treaty (hopefully agreeing to British rule at least till the end of the war), following which Austria would visit for the same reason. Then, Arthur had a dinner with his brothers to look forward to, where they would discuss progress and strategy. Damn. This was why he preferred being just "Sir Kirkland" to being "King Arthur". At least Merlin would help.

France arrived after lunch, along with various representatives of his government. They were polite, respectful and completely compliant. Arthur hated every moment of it.

When he finally got Francis alone, he asked, "what IS going on, frog? I have never seen you so… defeated. Not even when Germany took over."

France shook his head, "cher ami… this may seem odd, but, we are truly defeated this time. We cannot face amerique on our own. Yet, to give our sovereignty to an ally in order to win makes us truly weaker than to submit to an enemy."

"France… we've known each other too long for this. You know I don't see things that way."

"oui, but it is still submission, mon petit lapin."

"I… wish I could say I was sorry. I cannot apologize for this action, as it is for the good of the people. Yours and mine."

"No, cher, yours. The people are yours alone from now onward. I am but a colony, and you can do with me as you please. Till the war is over I cannot resist you in any way."

"You know me well enough to know that I'd never take advantage of that."

"Merci, Angleterre. For reassuring me."

Arthur inclined his head, "Will you stay here or return to Paris?"

"It is up to you."

"Then, please return to Paris after swearing allegiance, Francis. I will leave the governing of France to you through this war."

"Angleterre!" there were actually tears in his eyes, "Merci, mon ami, merci beaucoup."

Arthur just smiled, this was, after all the least he could do for Francis. They could go back to fighting each other when the war was over.

An hour after the French departed, the delegation from Austria (and Hungary who for some reason had decided to join him) arrived. After greeting the delegates and hearing their concerns, Arthur managed to convince them to join the empire (Roderich helped, as did Elizaveta, who threatened them with her frying pan every time they contradicted Roderich). All in all, it was a productive session. Once the delegates were placated, Arthur spoke directly to the two countries,

"It was nice of you to come, Roderich, Elizaveta. Though I was not expecting the both of you."

"I'm sorry for not informing you sooner, Arthur." Said Elizaveta, "but it was a last minute decision."

"ah, I see. Any news from your government?" Arthur asked

she nodded, "I am here to officially cede my lands to the british empire and request the status of 'colony'." She smiled widely.

"Accepted, with my thanks. You work miracles Liza, Rod's lucky to have you."

Smiling, she nodded. Then looked to Roderich, "don't you have something to tell him?"

Roderich scowled, "Germany looks like a problem, England. Ludwig refuses to join the empire or fight America. Gil is getting mad. I fear there may be civil war since Gil is still East Germany."

Arthur nodded, "we had considered the possibility. We hope to help reform the Prussian empire. Perhaps returning all his former land and creating a way to attain Russia's land if he…" Arthur broke off.

Roderich inclined his head, "Gil would like his nation back, of that I have no doubt. The question is if he will conquer Germany."

"We'll all do things, in this war, that we won't like. It's just making Germany a colony till the end of the war, I'm sure he can agree to that at least."

Elizaveta nodded, "What happens if we win? To America, I mean. All the nations agree that he cannot be allowed to remain a power of any sort. Are we going to kill him?"

Arthur paled, "If we must, we will kill him. I'm hoping it does not come to that, but it probably will."

Roderich blanched, "I forgot. You raised him, didn't you? My condolences…"

Arthur nodded, "it's fine. He's his own man now."

"Speaking of which, Vash wants to speak to you." Said Roderich.

"Switzerland does? I thought he always remained neutral?"

"Said something about the American threatening his sister at some point." Replied Roderich.

"He also said he wanted to talk to you about how you planned to treat Austria." Giggled Elizaveta.

Arthur smirked, "Really Roderich, I was unaware that you were close…"

Roderich flushed, "it's… I… you are enjoying yourselves aren't you?" he scowled, accepting defeat.

The meeting ended on that note, and the two nations departed cheerfully for home, with a message for Vash. Arthur then began to prepare for dinner. It was a formal dinner in the main hall, so he had to dress for the occasion. Sighing, he put on his (uncomfortable, starchy) clothing, and prepared for a long night.

At dinner, the brothers discussed the meeting, sharing a laugh over Austria's embarrassment, and complimenting Arthur on a job well done. Ireland then mentioned that his people were accepting the return to colony-hood quite well, and that they were looking forward to a new government. Arthur could almost taste his brother's sorrow when he admitted that, upto that point, he had ignored his people's wishes for change, feeling that it was easier to trust in the government. It was at this point that Arthur brought up the 'Germany issue' as they had termed it. It was time to recreate Prussia. The meeting with Gilbert was to be held on that coming Tuesday, that left Arthur two days to prepare. All the same, he needed to convince Gil that Germany needed to be neutralized. How do you convince a man that the child he raised was a threat? When he asked his brothers, they told him to look in a mirror. Did he have to show Gil? To make him understand the horrors that Germany and America could create together? Perhaps the past would suffice. The Second World War, all those centuries ago, surely the betrayal was unforgotten… yes, and if that failed then Arthur would show Gilbert the present.

Damn Alfred for pushing him to this. Damn it all. The weight of all the nations, now part of his empire, weighed on Arthur's shoulders, breaking him. He wanted this to end. He wanted to rest. This time there was no distant salvation, no bright-eyed child, to take his mind off things. At this, Arthur buried his head in his hands, too far gone for tears; he shook with emotions he didn't want to understand. He fell asleep there, on the hard backed chair, slumped forward in bitter submission (to sleep or fate or duty). England was, in that moment, truly defeated.


	6. To Be or Not To Be, That is the Prussian

A/N: Sorry this took so long, i had a bit of writers block -_-

Chapter 6: To Be or Not To Be That is the Prussian.

Arthur sighed; he had been in a meeting with the Swiss delegation for over three hours, discussing national policy and how the war would affect the economy. The Swiss did not see many reasons to stop being neutral and Arthur was beginning to wonder why they bothered coming in the first place. Then Vash spoke up. He began to raise the question of America respecting neutrality (which the delegation protested vehemently) and spoke of threats that had been made to the government of late. Vash was, if nothing else, a marvelous orator (if slightly trigger happy) and had every official in the room eating out of the palm of his hand. The meeting was still tedious though.

Vash greeted Arthur with a tired smile, "England. I am looking forward to working with you."

"So they came to a decision then?" Arthur asked

"Very much so. Aren't you going to welcome your newest colony?"

"Welcome to the family then, Vash." Arthur said, smiling widely.

"I do wonder, what is it that made you compromise your neutrality. The truth if you please."

"The war isn't in Europe this time. Also we have a large amount of money in our banks, which America may have coveted."

"I am glad, in a sense, that you see things this way."

Vash nodded, this was obvious to him he just said, "You can use my house to visit Gilbert. I have sent him a message to that affect. He will expect you tomorrow at noon."

"Thank you, Vash."

"Arthur," Vash said, from the doorway, "Take care of my brothers would you? They are fools after all, even Austria."

"I know the feeling, and I promise to do my best for them and you."

"My thanks."

Thus concluded the evening chat between England and Switzerland, and Arthur slept well knowing he was prepared to meet Prussia. He now had enough clout to reform the empire of Prussia, and his only problem was convincing Gilbert to both accept his new nation and conquer Germany.

Morning found Arthur balancing his tea and papers together on his lap, while chatting on the phone. He was reporting on their recent successes to his brothers and trying to prepare to meet Prussia. All the while, he was avoiding thoughts of America and trying to keep all his actions a secret. Needless to say that he was tense. At noon, Arthur sat in Vash's vast meeting hall, and waited for Gilbert, who broke his centuries long habit by being on time. Once Arthur got over the shock of seeing him on time, they moved on to business.

"Gil, I hate to cut the pleasantries short, but we have important matters to discuss."

"If you consider them important enough to screw the proprietaries, then they must be grave indeed. Let me guess, the upcoming war with America. Ja?"

Arthur nodded, "Quite. The stupid sod didn't realize that there was a leak in his information. I'm taking charge of what I can, but Germany is a problem."

"Understatement is a skill Arthur, I can see the problem. Lud refuses to fight though."

"We both know you cannot change his mind, Gil, so never fear that I called you hear for that."

"Stop dancing around the issue then, Arthur. We've known each other long enough for me to know that you're stalling. Get to it."

"I want to re-form Prussia."

"WHAT? Say that again. I thought you said you wanted to re-form Prussia."

"I did. Breathe Gil. Slowly."

"Don't joke about things like this, Artie. I can't bear it."

"No joke. I'm serious. We need the strength of Prussia. As an independent empire…"

"What's the catch?"

"Germany."

"Explain."

"Conquer Germany in exchange, please, and help with the war."

"You want me to invade Ludwig's land and take over?"

"Yes."

"Arthur, he's my baby brother. Everything I've done was to make him a power. What you're asking goes against everything I've ever…"

"You think I don't bloody know that? Recall, Gil, what my relationship to America is."

"Arthur…"

"It need only be till the war ends. Please Prussia. I beg this of you."

"Damn. Damn you for being right."

"You'll do it then?"

"One condition."

"What?"

"I get to keep my nation after the war. I won't have you interfering."

"Very well. If I may ask, will you fly the Union Jack alongside your flag?"

"An alliance Britain? Very well. Equal Partners in this then."

"I'd like that Gil. It's been a long time since we didn't have to hide our friendship."

"Yeah… Danke Arthur, for returning my nation to me."

Arthur smiled at Gilbert, "Welcome back, Prussia."


	7. It All Begins to Move

Chapter 7: It all begins to move

The key was in the timing. Ludwig always left home for work at precisely 9 am, and this time he was leaving for a week. This gave gilbert time to consolidate his position. Living in his brother's basement had given him a sense of perspective, he could see the bubbling of silent discontent that ran rampant under the surface, even if only in east Germany. Ludwig hadn't even noticed that they were no longer SHARING the people; he could just no longer feel them or their land. Since Gilbert was the one who always went grocery shopping and who met with people (outside the government) on a regular basis, he had a solid base of people he could trust and work with. That is where he would begin.

The cafes in what used to be East Berlin were full of the people who Gilbert wanted to meet. He had called them there to discuss the possibility of declaring independence from West Germany. They had come from all over, and, over the past months, had been meeting regularly in order to plan ahead. To Gilbert, this wasn't just a rebellion, it was the rebuilding of what had been taken from him and destroyed. They constantly avoided the governmental supervision, plotting, planning, creating infrastructure to support them after they broke away. At the same time, they prepared for war. Making contact with arms dealers, supply chains, and creating contacts in the military.

As months passed, the movement had spread to most of East Germany, with people preparing to take up arms to be independent. The people began to rally their friends and family, and they were soon the majority. All the resentment and discontent that had been simmering had now come to a boil. With promised aid from Britain (which now included Austria, Hungary, France and Switzerland) the people were ready for war.

The final step, as it were, was the fact that Poland and Russia (at least the government) had agreed (via negotiations with Britain) to cede to them the lands that were originally part of Prussia. This on the condition that they were independent and that they aided in the war effort. The people took this as the signal to start open rebellion and they took to the streets with a gusto that hadn't been seen in years. So much gusto, in fact, that the news reached the government almost immediately.

Gilbert was prepared for this turn of events, and dispatched a team to negotiate with the German government. He joined the team for the third meeting, when it was obvious they were no longer listening. The presence of the representative of East Germany on the side of the 'rebels' put a more serious slant on things. It also enraged Ludwig, who accused Gilbert of betraying him.

Gilbert listened silently to Ludwig, when Ludwig fell silent, he spoke, "Ludwig, I was never 'yours'. Never a part of you. I raised you, taught you, helped you, cleaned up after you, and paid the price for your stupidity. I am no longer going to sit still and allow you to ruin everything we built. Again."

Ludwig seemed shocked, "Brother… this is most unexpected."

"It would not have been unexpected if you had been looking at me for the last few years." Gilbert replied, "But you took away my voice, my role. You pretended I didn't exist, so this is the price."

"Is this revenge then?" Ludwig asked

"Nein. This is for the people. I could deal with fading, but they refuse to let you destroy them." Gilbert smiled. "They call themselves Prussia."

Ludwig hesitated, "But, the world will not recognize your nation brother."

"You are mistaken. Britain, who has recently returned to being an empire, recognizes me. As do Russia, Poland, and the Nordics." Gil was smirking by this point. "If you cannot accept it, we fear we must rebuild the wall."

Ludwig nearly fell off his seat. He had faced many shocks over the previous hours, not least of which was that his brother had obviously been planning this for a while, and now the threat of a wall (THE Wall. The one thing he always associated with loneliness and fear). This was one battle he had clearly lost.

Ludwig inclined his head, "I understand, but I will not be able to give you all that you desire. Berlin remains mine. As does Potsdam."

"that means you keep Sanssouci. I cannot permit that." Gilbert's rage was clear in his eyes, "Fritz sleeps there. I will not cede his remains to you. He was MY King, not yours."

"This is politics, Ost. I cannot give it to you just because you want it." Ludwig replied.

"So be it then." Gilbert stood, stretching his arms above his head, "Do you acknowledge the independence of the nation formerly East Germany?"

"As representative of Germany, I do."

"Do you acknowledge that this nation is now known as Prussia?"

"I do."

"Finally, do you cede the lands, which are a part of east Germany to the people of Prussia?"

"I do."

"Then we have concluded our business." With this, Gilbert marched outside to inform his people of the news. Celebrations in the new nation of Prussia would last for a week.

Still, Prussia knew that he had to move quickly. Germany would soon realize that silence didn't mean acquiescence. Their armed forces were large, thanks to the backing of Britain and his (shiny new) empire. Their people were also very determined. "But then," pondered Prussia, "Revolutionaries always were." There was now too much at stake if they lost, too many lives, too many dreams. They had to win.

A new nation, that was what he was. An old, battered, broken land: reborn in rebellion with the voices of his people thrumming in his veins. The light in his long life, the spark he had once reached for had long since turned to flame and burnt him till he was extinguished (while the young flame had burned burned burned… all that was in his way and all that got close) but Prussia rose from his own ashes, determined to live (or determined not to die) and now the spark that had so betrayed him would have to lose its light.

"So poetic" Prussia muttered, "I must be growing old, I sound like that prissy aristocrat."

Except that Roderich was not so prissy, not really. Prussia still remembered the look of desperate helplessness on Austria's face during the Anschluss, the way his hands trembled (just so) as he poured them tea and served them pastries. The way his arms held tight to Prussia as Prussia helped him escape to Switzerland. Lastly and most clearly Prussia recalled the tiny gold star on Roderich's chest and the way West had insisted that it somehow made the Austrian 'less' than them.

All of it was ancient history, still, it gave Gilbert the push he needed. Germany would fall at his hands. He had created Germany, after all, so he could take it back. Gilbert's eyes fell on the flag and he smiled, thanks to Arthur he had it back. This time he wouldn't let it go.

War was a surprisingly slow moving affair. At least according to gilbert's various soldiers who were growing impatient for action. They'd get their hearts fill soon. Once Poland and Russia had kept their words and Konigsberg (no longer Kalingrad like that bastard had named it) was restored and Gilbert's heart beat, once again, in tandem with his people's he declared war on Germany. After all, he had a former king to save.

The battle for Germany wasn't nearly as fierce anywhere as in Berlin and Potsdam, Ludwig's desperation to protect his 'heart' clashed fiercely with Gilbert's determination to see his 'lieber Fritz' restored to him. With the support of England, Poland, and, surprisingly enough, Spain, Prussia triumphed and the ensuing treaty talks gave England the perfect opportunity to talk with Spain.

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"Hello Espanga"

"Ah, Ingleterra, what do want from me?"

"you wound me 'Tonio, can't I just come to visit an old… friend?"

Spain just raised his eyebrow, "Arturo, mi amigo, you are in the middle of a war. You never have time for pleasantries, so get on with it."

England's face twitched into a smile, "I need allies to secure Europe as I fight America. He could well destroy us all a la Russia, but I need to TRY."

Spain thought for a moment, "Arthur,"

"Hmm?"

"Would it not be simpler for you to conquer me? You have the power."

"You're my friend 'Tonio."

Spain Laughed, "When has that ever mattered?"

"I grow tired of fighting on all sides. Is an alliance impossible?"

Spain hesitated, "If I join your empire, will I retain control of my lands?"

"Yes"

"Will you let me govern my people as I see fit?"

"Of course."

"When the war is over, will you grant us home rule?"

"Should you wish it, then yes."

"Then I am yours, mi amigo. Espanga will be part of the British Empire. Dios, Lovi will kill me!"

"Let's see if we can't get him into this as well, ok?"

They put their arms around each other and meandered off to tell Prussia the good news

Securing and ruling a country was hard work, decided Gilbert as Ludwig was dragged to the centuries old, long unused dungeons of Sanssouci, how Fritz had managed it for so long was beyond Gilbert's comprehension.

"Still," Gilbert thought, gazing at the portrait of King Friedrich on the wall,

"As long as Fritz is watching over us, nothing can go wrong."

The ring around gilbert's finger had the old royal seal, the inside was engraved "Zu mein lieber Gilbert – Fritz"

'To my darling Gilbert', he nearly snorted, Fritz had been carelessly romantic, so Gilbert had rarely been able to wear the ring for fear of discovery. Still, how Ludwig thought he would leave the remains of the one man who had seen him as more than a 'resource' to another nation was beyond Gilbert. He missed Fritz. Ludwig was gone too. Well, he was no longer his brother or the child he raised, anyway. Those ties had been cut long ago, by Germany when he had sent gilbert to Auschwitz without a second thought.

Still, the loneliness was crushing.

Prussia slumped back against his hard, straight-backed throne, head in hands, wondering why the best thing for the land and its people was so painful for the creature that personified it. He thought of England, slumped to his knees in mud, blood and rain, tears flowing from his eyes as the first person to open his heart stabbed him there repeatedly with just a few words, "You Used To Be So BIG…"

Even as he tried to move deeper into memory, gilbert was interrupted by a pair of giggling nations with their arms around one another. There was no alcohol in sight.

"I take it the talks went well?" Prussia deadpanned, sending the two green-eyed nations into another fit of giggles. When they got themselves under control, England said, "I never thought I'd see the day… Spain is now"

Prussia waited for England to continue, and waited and waited and waited some more,

"Get on with it."

"It's called a dramatic pause, clotpole. Spain is now my Colony."

Prussia, who had been rising from his throne to protest being called a clotpole, promptly fell on his royal arse at the declaration of Spain's colonyhood. This fall was quite to the amusement of the two giggly nations of Spain and England, who used the opportunity to return to the depths of giggliness.

Thus ended the day.


	8. Conquer America, Eh?

Conquer America, Eh?

While Prussia was securing Germany, America had his hands full trying to conquer Canada. Unfortunately, he had forgotten that Canada had various allies that would be willing to jump to his aid. That these allies included Britain was a fact that America definitely didn't want to remember.

America's plan was simple, using the northern frontier border (aka Alaska) as a point of attack while moving troops into place on the southern borders with Canada. The plan was logically and tactically sound (surprisingly so) and would have worked if it hadn't been for the fact that Britain had predicted this very move and deployed combined British and Russian forces to Alaska to both preempt the attack and to conquer Alaska.

Unaware of the quiet movements of his enemies in Alaska, America continued to skirmish around the south of Canada's borders, which led to Canada's decision to close his borders to all American citizens and consider the Americans still in Canada at the time of the border closing Prisoners of War. America was not particularly happy with that decision and sent troops to convince Canada of the fact.

Sadly for all that America considered Canada a pushover; Canada's passive aggression and clear defiance of America's troops were beginning to frustrate him. He was so focused on Canada's every move that he failed to notice the movements in Alaska until he could no longer do anything about it.

Speaking of which: at the same time as the story above, Alaska was enjoying the scene of American troops being picked off one unit at a time using subtle infiltration and supply line destruction tactics. Within four months, Alaska was a British territory, and, more importantly, Canada's ally. As was all the oil in Alaska.

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Elsewhere, Canada was getting a tiny bit upset. America had been playing a new game with his troops. It was called, "catch and kill the Canadians, sack their homes, take their stuff and laugh at them." Canada did not like the game at all. Still, he needed to be patient. Once Britain had conquered Alaska, allied troops could aid in the battle, but until then, he needed to seem helpless.

Still, a teeny bit of retaliation seemed to be in order. Canada ordered his troops to dress as civilians and prepare for the Americans to attack them. After all, self defense was not a crime. Canada smiled innocently.

Soon, news arrived of an allied victory in Alaska, and Britain personally sent a message saying he would arrive as soon as Spain had been dealt with. The phrasing of the message implied that the situation in Europe was being swiftly handled, and to Britain's satisfaction, at that.

All Matthew needed to do now was wait a week.

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Arthur arrived on a Tuesday quite similar to the day they had first met, with bright sunshine and a warm wind. Time had eroded the beautiful landscape and America had destroyed the warm gentle smile on Arthur's face (Matthew could still recall the bitter tears and Britain's plea that Canada never leave him like that), but the warmth from that day was echoed in this reunion.

"Papa, welcome." He said gently (the 'home' remained unspoken but hopefully not unheard) as Arthur stepped down from the 'plane.

"It is good to be here Matthew, you have done very well."

Blushing at the praise, Matthew wondered at Arthur's ability to affect such change in him using only the simplest of expressions, despite the fact that Matthew was an adult, and had been for so long. He concluded that it was the fact that he still thought of Arthur as his father.

"All the same," continued Arthur, "Canada, you need to be careful."

Here his expression softened, "I'd hate to see you hurt, Love."

Still slightly pink, Canada replied, "Yes Papa, I know. How did things go with Spain?"

"He is now part of the empire, and Prussia has conquered Germany, so Europe is secure. For the most part." England grimaced,

"I HAVE left France in charge though, so I fear for the sanity (and security) of Europe until my return. Stupid frog."

Canada nearly laughed; some things would never change.

"Papa, what are we going to do about America?"

"Probe the borders, love. Push to see how far America will let us go, and, when he does retaliate, declare war on the grounds of encroachment of property and unprovoked attacks on Canadian citizens. We'll catch them off guard. Troops are stationed in Mexico and are ready to attack at the slightest notice, Diego Garcia is back in allied hands, Russia is waking up from his coma (and we all know how cranky he's going to be) and China is tired of sitting on his hands. America won't know what hit him when we're done."

Canada inclined his head, "What will happen to Alfred at the end of this?"

A flicker of something appeared in England's eyes, but it was gone before Canada could recognize it, "he'll probably be killed, either in battle or by us. At the very least, he will lose all freedoms and become a slave, catering to our every whim."

Canada understood. This was what England had feared from the very start, what he had tried to warn America about from the beginning. All Nations Fall. The question is simply when, how, how fast, and how far.

France had fallen with broken pride and helpless surrender, Germany with shame and hatred, Prussia through betrayal and for love, Spain with a tight fist and worthless pride, and England. England fell with a broken heart, empty words and a bitter reality. In his turn, he had tried so very hard to protect his former charges from the fall, but America was falling anyway. America had been teetering on the edge of the precipice for a long while, but England had always been there to hold him firm, the steadfast ally, and the protective friend. This time, America had pushed so far that England could no longer hold him back and America would fall. The only question remained was whether he would fall to his death, like Rome, or if he would survive in a broken form like England. Canada did not know.

"Mattie, Mattie, Matthew... your mind seems to be wandering, love, I need you to concentrate."

"Sorry Papa, I was thinking about America. Do you hate him for this?"

"No, Matthew, I don't think it is possible for me to hate him, or any of you for that matter. I am, and have always been, your guardian. For America, I was never enough but I still love him as much as I did the day I let him into my heart. You, of all people, Canada, should know that."

"Oui," replied Canada, reverting to French as he always did when stressed, "but my brother has, this time, pushed far enough to earn even my hatred, far enough to be unable to earn your forgiveness. I simply wondered if he had lost your love in the process."

England smiled bitterly, "I cannot forgive, I will never forget, but I will always love him. Please, never doubt that."

Canada nodded silently, knowing that he had very nearly crossed a line. He sighed, moving closer to England, and slipped his hand onto England's arm.

"Matthew…" England hesitated, "I am truly sorry to force you to fight America."

He cut across Canada as he opened his mouth, "I know you would have had to anyway, but I am still sorry."

Canada snorted, "He was always going to try and conquer me, I've known that since 1812. I'm between him and Alaska, I'm friends with Cuba, I'm a pacifist. Basically, I'm a rather large, landmass shaped, thorn in America's side. What's more, I enjoy it."

England suppressed a snicker, "Well said, Matthew, and point well made."

Here he sighed, "Why did that child push himself to this?"

Canada could not answer.

The next day, they began to probe the borders. Within a week, they were officially at war with America.

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America was in trouble. Alaska was gone, damn England. Canada was actually fighting back (not at all like his usual wimpy self). What was worse, Japan was no longer speaking to him. Also, Germany seemed to have dropped off the grid and all of Europe was giving him (America) the silent treatment.

All America wanted to do was to take over the whole world so he could stop all fighting, but nooooo, the world refused to cooperate. It had to be Russia's fault, but since he was in a coma, America couldn't blame him. That left America with no one to blame, save himself, and he was a hero, so he couldn't be at fault.

At that very moment, England was sitting down in Canada's lodge in… well: Canada, trying to video call America.

"Hello, Alfred."

"Hey Iggy!" America had decided to play casual and enjoy England's reaction to the much-hated nickname. None came. Instead, England smiled sadly,

"To think there would come a day when I would miss that nickname…"

"You're kidding!"

England sighed, "America, tell me you know that Alaska is mine now."

"Yeah." America scowled, "Why'd you attack?"

"Canada is my colony, Alfred, I was well within my rights to defend him."

"WAS, old man, Canada WAS your colony. Are you growing forgetful in your old age?" America was sure of a reaction this time, but England just looked ruefully at him.

"No, America, Canada is my colony. He returned to my empire. Which is quite large, by the way." He added at America's shocked look.

"No. No way, dude. Canada wouldn't. Canada couldn't."

"Oh, but he did. He is part of my empire."

"Then, I've been fighting…"

"You have, in declaring war on Canada, declared war upon me."

"England…" America whispered softly.

"What you did to Russia and his sisters was… for lack of better word, Inexcusable."

"Britain, Listen…" America said, this time slightly louder.

"Your information system has more holes than Swiss cheese, by the way, I've known your plans for awhile now." England broke off,

"Please, England, I really don't wanna fight you (right now)" the last bit was a mumble, but England heard it anyway.

He sighed, "You already are, love."

"Then stop it from your side, I'll return my troops to their earlier positions and we can pretend it never happened."

"No can do, America. You'd just wait awhile and destroy me instead."

"I'm trying to save the world."

England grimaced, "No, love, you're trying to own it."

"I'm trying to protect people from war. From themselves."

England sighed miserably, "In the words of your own people, 'give me liberty or give me death'."

"Shut up, England. You don't understand my ideals."

"Have you forgotten your old ones? Have your new ideals destroyed what made you? Do you not remember the words 'Those who would give up Essential Liberty to purchase a little Temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety'? How could you think that the world would simply submit to you? Tell me America, where have your ideals gone?"

"The world has changed since those days. This must be done."

"Then let me say this. My people will never submit to you, will never bow to you, will never be your slaves. We'd die first."

"So, to war then?"

"I am afraid so."

America looked at England, feeling like crying on the inside, but letting nothing show,

"Will I see you again?"

"Only on the battlefield, America."

"I wish I could apologize for this, but I cannot. Still, I must apologize for all the wars I've caused in the past."

"I forgive you the past, America. I always have. This war, though, is not something I can never forgive. You have gone too far."

America nodded. This was goodbye. Goodbye to Britain. To England. To the one person who had been there through everything. True, his nation no longer needed England's backing, but Alfred F Jones needed Arthur. There was no going back this time.

"Goodbye Britain."

"Good-bye, America. I doubt we will meet again in a cordial arena."

"Arthur… take care."

"And yourself, love. Take care."

If this was for his ideals, if this was the right thing, then why did it hurt so bad? Why did he feel like a monster? Why did he feel so empty, as if a part of him was gone? He felt like a hypocrite, he wanted it all to end. He wanted Arthur to come back, to tell him it would all be alright, but he knew it was impossible.

Arthur wasn't coming back, and that warmth was gone.

It would never come back again.

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In Canada, England wiped his eyes. These would be the last tears he shed for America until the war was concluded. Win or lose, England was banking everything on this one war.

Silently, Canada sat next to his father-guardian-mentor and put his head on England's shoulder, tears streaming down his cheeks as he forced himself to stop thinking of America as his brother. There was only one path left for them, and that was to move forward.

To conquer America.


	9. Canada's War

Another War: Chapter 9- Canada's War

The troops moved silently towards the border. The terrain was hilly and covered with large trees, and the Canadians knew it well. They took advantage of their knowledge to gain the high ground, and camped out on the mid crest of the hill. The Americans had spotted them by then, and moved to make camp on a slight hill across from the narrow valley. (The Canadians were near Abbotsford, whose residents had been cleared out to keep them safe, so they had the supplies from the town.) They sat camped at their little hill, chomping down on crackers, soup and meals, and waited for the Americans to make their move.

Move they did. A few days into the wait, the Americans launched an attack, the Canadians met them in battle as close to their hill as possible, killing as many as they could and then retreating, moving camp further uphill as the Americans chased them. Matthew's plan was simple, lure the Americans into the valley and trap them with attacks from behind. He knew they couldn't fight the whole army, but they could hold out till their reinforcements arrived. It was surprising for him to see Alfred on the battlefield, but it was strangely appropriate.

Days passed in masses of blood and dirt, the supplies began to ware thin, the men began to feel restless at the taunts of their enemies, but still they held firm. The young colonel sent to help him out began to get nervous, finally confronting him about a week in.

"The men are getting restless, Sir."

"Yes," Matthew nodded, "I can see that, Colonel."

"Then why are we still doing nothing?" He flushed and quickly added, "Sir."

"James," The young man started at the use of his name, "We need to keep to plan or we'll all end up corpses."

"May I speak freely sir?" At Matthew's nod he continued, "The men need to be reassured, sir, they need to know what we plan on doing."

"Why? Can't they trust me?"

James hesitated, "You look younger than me, General, and in all honesty, it looks like you lack experience."

Matthew blinked, looked down at himself and blinked again, "Do I really look that young?"

"You look no more than 20 sir."

"Maple… no wonder they look nervous."

James turned a snicker into a cough and covered his grin with a fist, "Yessir."

Matthew sighed, "Get the men together, I have something to tell you all."

The following two hours were spent in telling and proving to the men who he was after showing them pictures, portraits and records they finally believed him. His men were just as stubborn as he was, another feature he blamed on England.

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Canada's men were weary, the Americans were better and more experienced at this than them. That was unsurprising, America had always been more warlike than their closest neighbours. All the same, Canada's troops were holding their own against the overwhelming opposition. Just that fact was filling the troops with hope and pride. What strong motivators fear and rage were! The men didn't want to die, they didn't want the enemy who had betrayed, murdered, burned and sacked their homeland to get away with it. They had the terrain on their sides, and (to their mind) righteousness too.

Matthew had lived too long to believe in righteousness in war. All he cared about was the protection of his people and land, as a nation, that was what meant most to him, and he would guard them fiercely even from his idiot brother.

Two weeks into close combat, the terrain had turned from lush trees and solid ground to burnt logs and muddy, bloody slush. Matthew was bathed in it from the waist down. He fell, grabbing a sharp piece of wood from the ground and heaving it upwards into his attacker's body. He breathed. His attacker did not. Gasping, Matthew stumbled to his feet, barely giving himself time to catch his breath before bending over his attacker's corpse and taking from it the dead man's ammunition and canteen. He then stripped the corpse of its valuables. This was the kind of war that had been waged and Matthew, desperate for all he could get, felt sick doing it nonetheless.

Across the field, Alfred met his eyes, one of Matthew's soldiers lying dead at his feet. They looked identical, did Alfred and Matthew, as they always had, but for their uniforms. The only clean spot on their bodies, their patches, marked them as enemies. American and Canadian. They were brothers still, despite the war, and even as the screams of dying comrades echoed in their ears, Matthew couldn't tear his eyes away from Alfred's. the emptiness and frustration, love and hate he saw there mirrored Matthew's own sentiments.

A sudden shout from beside him shocked Matthew's gaze to his own side—rage filled him. They had played enough. It was time to counter-attack. Matthew gave the signal and suddenly Canadian reserve troops swarmed the American camp, which had been left, as a result of American overconfidence, mostly unguarded. The camp, some five hundred meters downhill from the battle, was completely overwhelmed by the energetic attack from the well-rested Canadian troops. The Americans' attention divided, they were caught in a Canadian ambush as they fell into disarray, some tried to retreat while others were determinedly holding their ground. The utter confusion of the troops was added to by the dawning realization that they had nowhere to retreat **to.**

Matthew smirked as he lunged forward and slashed his enemy's throat with a pocketknife. He turned as he caught a glimpse of Alfred attacking his troops, and used the last of his ammunition to shoot Alfred in the chest. Twice. His troops were winning now. Both sides had run out of ammunition and for all America's practice at war and hand-to-hand training, the Canadians were better at slashing, kicking, punching and all around dirty fighting. It had to be Arthur's training.

Caught in their desperate retreat to god-knows-where, the Americans had no way to escape, and, with Alfred unconscious, no desire to flee. Matthew's strategy had worked, but it was only a temporary fix. The Americans had many more troops than just this detachment, and the arrival of more troops had to be delayed as far as possible. The second half of Matthew's plan involved capturing the remainder of the surrendering troops and forcing them to pretend they were still at war. The deception would not last long—not all the Americans were foolish, but it was a solution that would stopper the gap until Canada's reinforcements from Russia and Britain arrived.

Relaxed by their victory, Canada's men celebrated. They celebrated in an oddly organized manner, taking celebration in shifts of twelve hours each, and rotating it with guard duty. They did use the traditional celebration of alcohol and singing, and Matthew was certain that those few without hangovers would have headaches from said "musical" entertainment. The men went through nearly 500 bottles of beer and whiskey, dancing all the while. All that time, Matthew sat with Alfred.

Alfred was imprisoned in a bunker below Matthew's tent, bound by titanium-reinforced chains. The chains themselves were special, they had sigils carved into the metal, hand carved by England for use on his enemies. They had been intended for use on Spain or France, never his beloved Alfred. Matthew sighed, he was still bitter about his father's obvious affection for Alfred. Though he knew his father loved them all equally, Alfred was special to him, Matthew understood that, but it did still hurt.

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Alfred scowled helplessly at his brother, bruised, battered and beyond exhausted. His lips felt like they could barely form words and he could hardly hold his head up. Finally, Matthew took pity on him, he was fed two slices of bread and a can of soup. His face flushed. Being fed by his brother slash enemy was beyond shameful to the self proclaimed 'Hero'. He had clearly lost the recent battle, but he could yet win the war. All he had to do was escape, cross the border and…

"Don't even think about it, Al." Matthew said. "You'll never make it. Sit quietly and wait, love, and you'll soon be released."

"You."

"Yes"

"You've. Been. Spending. Too much time. With dad."

Matthew ruffled Alfred's hair. "You still call him 'dad' eh?"

Alfred's ears turned red and hot.

"Don't be ashamed, he still thinks of you as his son." Matthew tugged Alfred's face up by the chin, "That's why this war is killing him inside."

Alfred couldn't meet his brother's eyes. He knew that England—that his father hated this war, but he couldn't and wouldn't stop fighting just for that reason.

"You. Are. An. Idiot." Muttered Matthew punctuating each word with a slap to the back of Alfred's head, the gesture made Matthew's affection and exasperation with Alfred obvious. Matthew could see that Alfred was tearing their family apart, but could do nothing but watch, as helpless as Alfred's bound form.

Finally, Matthew sat beside his twin and leaned his head into Alfred's lap. He closed his eyes and, before alfred's disbelieving eyes, fell asleep. They had done this as children, afternoon naps in each others laps, but this was not afternoon, and they were no longer children, so why did this simple action make Alfred want to cry?

He remembered how Arthur would rock him to sleep in his arms, cuddle him to sleep in his bed when Alfred, tiny and afraid, would have a nightmare and refuse to leave. Arthur would sing him lullabies or tell him stories until he finally drifted off to sleep. Some afternoons, when Arthur was around, Matthew and Alfred would each choose a side of Arthur's lap to sleep on, give the man puppy dog eyes and sleep just like that. Arthur had never stopped them or moved them in their sleep, just stroked their heads and hummed quiet songs, whose names Alfred could not remember. Alfred had destroyed that relationship long ago in a muddy field, now he was destroying what was left of it in a burning battleground. The ache he felt and the bitter taste in his mouth were probably what regret felt like.

Sometime after that, Alfred had fallen asleep, his dreaming mind taking him to happier times. Arthur was smiling widely in an open field as he tossed a laughing and squealing child-Alfred into the air, smile widening as the child laughed with joy. The sky around them was a clear bright blue. "Just like your eyes." Said dream-Arthur, "free warm and happy." Suddenly, the scene shifted, the field was older now, and drenched in blood and rain, the grass had turned to mud. There was no laughter. The sky was grey. Arthur was on his knees, weeping bitterly as Alfred pointed his musket at him. He looked up as the trigger was pulled, face drenched in rain and muddy, bloody tears, and whispered "why?" as he bled out.

Alfred's eyes snapped open. His cheeks were wet. He'd been spared the mud and the blood, and he'd been denied the mercy of rain.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- x-x

Matthew shifted on Alfred's lap as droplets kept landing on his poor sleeping head. Finally, his eyes reluctantly opened to find Alfred unable to stop crying. Matthew pushed himself up and wiped at Alfred's cheeks with his sleeve, smearing them with the remnants of the previous day's battle in the process.

"What's wrong, Alfie?" he asked, voice thick with sleep, "Realized you'll lose the war?"

Alfred choked on a snigger, "Just like my eyes…" he murmured, mind returning to the dream. "Matt…"

Canada looked at his brother's exhausted face.

"Why didn't he pull the trigger?"

Canada's eyes widened at the question, it was not one that he expected he would ever hear or be answering. "I…" he broke off, "He…"

Canada shook his head, trying to find the words that would explain things to his brother as simply as possible. Finally he fixed his eyes on Alfred and began.

"because he loved you enough to let you break him." Canada sighed as his brother's eyes widened, "It's the only way he understood love. The only people he's loved have always hurt him, so he equates one to another, and somewhere along the way, that made it alright for those who love him or who he loves to have the ability and the right to break him."

Alfred shuddered in his bindings even as Matthew fixed him with a deadly glare.

"You had the chance to prove differently to him and what did you do?"

Alfred had the decency to flinch.

"The second breaking of Britannia is what Scotland called it."

"Stop Mattie." Alfred begged, "I can't take it anymore, I get it. I fucked up."

Matthew snorted, "That's the least of what you did."

"I know."

Matthew nodded, there was nothing more to say. Even if Matthew wanted to pound his brother into a pulp for making him answer that question when Alfred was making matters worse, it wouldn't make the situation any better. They had each chosen their sides, made their beds. It was time to lie in it.

"Okay." Said Matthew, "Now we have to get you untied."

Alfred looked surprised.

"Oh, we're not setting you free!"

Alfred snorted, "Didn't think you were, bro, but what's stopping me from escaping?"

"Every time you try to escape, Alfie, we'll shoot one of your men and torture the rest." Matthew's eyes were cold.

"You wouldn't" Alfred's eyes were wide, "You aren't that kind of person."

"Don't push it Alfred." Matthew snapped, "I've got a country to protect. Do you really think I'd let them off?" Matthew rubbed the bridge of his nose, "I couldn't even if I wanted too."

"No…" Mumbled Alfred, "but if you have that to hold over me, why the chains?"

"To keep you in line while you hear the status quo, brother mine, I've seen your temper too many times to take a risk." An evil smirk was on Matthew's face, "Besides, how many people can say they've seen you like this… and its fun."

"You're evil, Mattie."

Matthew nodded, a serious look returning to his face, "This is war, Alfie, and we all do what we must, even if what we must is an unbearably cruel thing."

"I won't run." Nodded Alfred. "Let me down."

Matthew sighed, it was time to drop another bomb on Alfred. He released Alfred from the chains and rubbed his wrists to help circulation. Finally, when Alfred seemed slightly recovered, Matthew spoke.

"Write your government and tell them how well the fight is going." It was a simple statement, but its meaning was apparent.

Horror etched itself on Alfred's face. "Fuck no. I'm no traitor!"

Matthew scowled, "Write, Alfred, or your men will suffer."

Alfred's face paled, "Fine, I'll write."

Alfred's hands reached for the paper in front of him, but Matthew stopped him before he could start writing.

"On second thoughts, Alfie, I'll dictate." And he did. And Alfred wrote, face drawn and tired.

"I hate you Matt."

"Hmm."

The sad part of that statement was that it was as true as it was false. They could and did hate, but they could never hate enough to match the hate of their humans. Even through the declarations of hatred, Alfred had leaned back into his hard-backed chair, as far away from the paper as he could get. To a stranger, the action would have seemed out of place when combined with declarations of hatred, but Matthew understood. This was something that Alfred hated, the writing of a false letter, and Alfred could never stand to be near something (or someone) he hated. Whether that which he hated was peas on a plate or a person who hurt him, Alfred always reacted the same.

Rising from his seat, Matthew bound Alfred in his place. The bindings were merely symbolic, Alfred could easily break them, but they served to remind Alfred of the situation. Matthew then walked out of the bunker into the sun, and was met by one of his men. Matthew ordered the man, a corporal, to bring one of the enemy soldiers to him. Once the corporal brought one to him, the prisoner was ordered to carry and post all the reports that he and his comrades had written. When the man did so, all was (temporarily) safe.

Once the mail was sent, the enemy prisoners were gathered together in the common mess. They looked mutinous for a moment, as if being together had filled them with renewed courage. They soon subsided when the Canadian soldiers trained their guns on them, and quietly ate their rations. It made Matthew sick to see the absolute line both sides had drawn. It wasn't real to him, it couldn't be. Still, there it stood, American and Canadian, prisoners and guards.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- x-x

Day had turned to evening, supplies were air delivered to them by the American air force. The Canadian soldiers were extremely pleased, both by the success of their plan and by the new lot of soup, crackers, chocolate, tea and coffee that had just arrived. The supplies were divided equally among the Canadians and the prisoners (it was their supplies after all), and much noise was made about the fact that they were using the supplies that were meant for their enemy, but necessity does as it must. Matthew took all the grumbling in his stride while he distributed the supplies as evenly as possible. Their own supplies, he knew, were a few days from arriving. In order to maintain their façade of weakening, there had to be a slowing in the supply line, thus the necessity of utilizing American supplies.

This was better, Matthew recalled, than the rationing of the Second World War. Matthew remembered those days all to well, and he'd be damned before he ever let his men suffer in that manner.

When he finally returned to Alfred's bunker-prison-room-thing, the found Alfred in agony, having forced himself to twist his own arm.

"You fool! What did you think you were doing?" Matthew rushed to his brother's side to try and help.

"I…am…a…traitor…must…be…punished."

Matthew's eyes widened, "Fuck, Alfie…"

Tired and pained eyes fixed on Matthew, "Representations do what they must for their people, must act only for the good of the land and the people. Never just for the government. Do you remember?"

Alfred snorted, "How…could…I…forget?"

"He did say it rather often." Murmured Matthew, massaging Alfred's twisted arm, "I'm surprised you listened, though."

Alfred sighed in relief, "I always listened. I just preferred to ignore him."

Now that his brother's idiocy had been dealt with, Matthew shared the food between them, basically feeding Alfred to allow his arm some rest. He knew that Alfred was just doing the best he could for his own people, and that his hurting himself was just a result of government power, but he did wish that his brother would look after himself better. He also wished that Alfred would look at the world slightly more clearly.

This was more than a little mess, and Alfred was no longer a child. Even with reinforcements and alliances, the fight would be long and bitter on both sides. Americans were never known for giving up. The fact of the matter was that the world did not want America to surrender. They wanted blood, from the youngest of nations to the old, war weary ones, all of them wanted blood, and they knew they'd get it so long as America fought. The nations of the world could legally butcher Americans in revenge so long as the war continued, and they'd do it too. Alfred had to know that. He was being purposely blind. For all his acting Alfred was never dumb. Damn it all to hell and back, even Matthew's men wanted American heads on pikes this time.

This mess, this war, would probably end in dissolution for Alfred, Matthew shuddered at the thought, the world was not feeling merciful. Matthew could clearly remember France's face on videoconference. The cold rage dancing in the older man's eyes travelled the distance and sent shivers up Matthew's spine. In contrast, the bitter regret on England's face and the burning pain in his eyes made Matthew feel safe and warm, but they meant the same thing. Fire or ice, love or hate, either way it would end. The day's end found Matthew, once again, beside his brother, caring for his injuries. As night descended, Matthew sat on his couch beside his brother's bed, put his head in his hands, and cried himself to sleep.

Arthur's ship docked in Canada at half past eleven on a Tuesday morning. Upon disembarking, instead of a prompt welcome and an organized debrief, the poor man's ears were assaulted by a cacophony of Canadian voices attempting to inform him of the various statuses he had missed and bring him up to date on Canadian actions in their war… all at the same time. Eventually, the slightly overwhelmed man/nation calmed the men down and extracted the relevant information from them in order. It seemed that Matthew's radio silence plan had worked too well and had moved up the schedule.

Once Arthur's men had found their land legs, Arthur got together a platoon of them to act as reinforcements to the Canadians.

At almost the same time, a majority of the Russian and allied forces that had captured Alaska had made it to Canada. Arthur met up with the leader of the combined force, a Spaniard who was (along with most of the non-Russian troops) extremely happy to be below the Arctic Circle, in fact, the man informed Arthur that the majority of the non-Russian troops had found religion, thanking god that their respective nations were below said circle and celebrating the Canadian warmth.

As much as Arthur hated to take away the men's vacation, he satisfied himself with the knowledge that they'd be warmer where they were going, and promptly requested their aid in helping the Canadians with their 'little border tiff'.

So a group of wobbly British troops, grumbling Russians and warm Europeans wandered down to reinforce the Canadian line.


	10. Chinese Whispers

Another War Chapter 10: Chinese Whispers

While Canada and America were engaged in traditional warfare, China was waging war of a different kind. Although less traditional, China comforted himself with the thought that economics was as old as war. China and India, together were plotting the destruction of the American economy.

They had initially intended to stay out of the business, but the war between America and the world was looking as if it would spill over to their side of the neutral divide.

America was never one to do anything by halves, and if he won, it was doubtful he would respect neutrality in the quest for world domination. So China made his decision and took a quick peek at the economy. The dependency plot had gone well, even if for another purpose, it could be used here. China carefully increased the price of his goods slowly, over the months, and began pulling them off the American market. It didn't hurt the Chinese economy to do this as they increased sales in Asia with every loss in America. Slowly but surely, America's hardware disappeared from stores. The American people found themselves with less and less of the products they had come to expect in the stores, and it was too late for America, with most of its capital invested in war, to begin production.

* * *

><p>As the American economy faltered in the war, the Chinese were preparing to dive in as well. They had set up an alliance with the biggest thorn in their side—India. The major reason for the alliance was the navy. The Chinese had a mass produced navy with very little actual training or experience, whereas India, being a peninsula had a better trained navy and experience with naval manoeuvres. They were also willing to split the responsibilities and command evenly with the Chinese. China would provide the ships and soldiers, India the officers and sailors.<p>

It was the first time these two nations, which had spent the last few hundred years glaring at each other across their respective borders, had combined forces. They had, albeit temporarily, put aside their animosity and agreed to cooperate. The world was trembling in its proverbial boots.

The combined troops were getting to know each other, getting trained and briefed. Soon they would be ready for battle.

* * *

><p>The flow of information from America was a bit like a partially blocked pipe. It came in fits and starts, providing information in large, desperate squirts, then choking itself and falling temporarily silent.<p>

The general consensus was that the outlook was grim. America either wanted to rule the world or destroy it. The world, quite obviously, had no intention of being ruled. Despite the destructive/suicidal ideation from America, it changed nothing for either India or China. In the short run, the existence and success of their people necessitated their involvement in the war. Self-preservation had taken over.

* * *

><p>India and China sat facing one another, sipping tea.<p>

"Did opium contact you?" China asked between sips. The cup in India's hand stilled halfway to her lips. She set it down.

"No, the Bastard did not. I'm acting of my own volition." She was frowning.

"So he wanted to keep you out of this. Wonder why?" China grinned, quickly covering it with a sip of tea.

"Probably because he's being a fool again." India flicked a stray hair out of her eyes, glaring all the while at the grinning Chinaman.

China nodded, England was a fool at the best of times, but somehow India still wanted to help him. "Why are you protecting him?" He asked her, unable to keep the honest confusion out of his voice.

She looked at him, eyes distant, "England… is an ass. He stole my recipes, made my people quarrel and threw fits like a child every time we refused him something."

"Then why?"

"The fool needs to be looked after. He's strong China, but not nearly strong enough to win on his own. Curse him, but I would hate it if he died. Who then would I quarrel with if not him? Who would I tease over cricket? Laugh and complain about history with? Pakistan is no fun, he's always sulking or trying to pick a fight with me. Bangladesh and Sri Lanka are boring! They never want to just hang out or do anything. Then there's you. You're cool, but we don't share the History!"

"So life would be boring without him?" Concluded China, seeing India nod China sighed and nodded as well, "I suppose it would be."

"Why are you helping him?" asked India, raising a curious eyebrow.

"Hong Kong." Said China, turning a pale pink, "He threw a fit. Promised me that if I didn't help his 'daddy', I'd find fireworks in uncomfortable places for the rest of my life."

India snorted, "He's England's kid through and through." She said, recalling the evil grin on the kid's face and fireworks in her dressing room.

China groaned, "Where did I go wrong?"

India began to laugh, China joined in helplessly, and the two nations washed away hysteria and fear in wave after wave of debilitating laughter that brought both of them to the ground.

Eventually, a man poked his head through the door to both pass on a message and ensure the safety of his nation. He found her in the rather undignified state of 'Rolling on the Floor' as his ten-year-old son put it. He sighed.

"England is on Video Call, Ma'am."

His nation immediately sobered. She stood up quickly and said, "Right. I'm coming."

The man nodded and waited respectfully as his nation brushed her dress free of dust and whatever else it had picked up on the floor, and straightened her hair. A quick glance in the mirror and they were off down the corridor, leaving China behind.

"India." England was on Video Conference

"England." India nodded, "Are we going to be calling each other's names this whole call?"

England snorted, "Hardly, love. Not that you don't have a beautiful name."

"I'm not your 'love' delusional bastard, and you can stop praising your naming sense. What are we doing then?"

England smirked at her response, then faltered. "I…um…"

"Yes?"

"Imightneedyourhelp."

"Say that again England. Slowly. Elucidate. It is your language."

"Shut up." Said a red-faced England, but continued slowly none-the-less, "I might need your help."

India grinned, baring her teeth. "You need my help?" She repeated, "The great England does?"

"Yes." He muttered, "Please Help Me." The words sounded like they hurt coming out, but India paid no attention.

"This would have something to do with America's World Domination Plot?"

"Yes…wait how do you know about that?"

"I have my ways." She said mysteriously.

England grimaced and let it alone. "So?" He looked at her hopefully, "Will you help then?"

She sighed, "Yes, yes, China and I are preparing a joint force for attack. Is there anywhere specific you'd like us to aim?"

England smiled, face brightening, "You could attack the Southern bit of America, around California, we've got their troops focused in the north, along the Canadian border."

India nodded, "anything else we should be aware of?"

"Spain and Portugal are combining their already combined troops with Mexico's, and will probably join your attack. Anyway, it would be best to coordinate with them."

India nodded, "The climate would suit our troops better in the south, so we may do just that." At England's smile she added, "Let me call in China."

There was no objection to be made, so China was brought in to help with the planning.

"Hello, England." Said China as he entered and took his seat. "You look well."

"Thank you for your help China, and it is good to see you too." England said rather pleasantly in reply.

"My help is merely self interest." Returned China, "I do not wish to find fireworks exploding in my bed, toilet, wardrobe, and office."

"Hong Kong threatened you?" Asked England, trying his hardest to repress snickers.

"Yes."

"Oh dear." There were tears in England's eyes from well-stoppered laughter.

"Hmph."

"I'll talk to him." Promised England, but there was little doubt that the conversation would contain positive reinforcement for Hong Kong.

India was enjoying the exchange, it reminded her of a parent-teacher conference, China the teacher and England the parent. A quick glance at her clock, however, and she saw the need to move along. She cleared her throat and the two men looked at her in confusion before she nodded at the papers in front of England.

England blushed, "War council, right."

India nearly burst out laughing at the sad faces on both men, but they needed to get back to work, so after a few moments to compose themselves, the three returned their focus to attack.

They had decided early on to attack California, which was poised prettily on the border with Mexico and had very little in the way of Ocean defences. Their original plan had involved taking Hawaii before reaching mainland, but England assured them that Japan was happily taking care of that. So they focused on the weak points in California's defence, collecting as much data as they could from England and getting prepared to coordinate with Spain.

By the end of the conversation, it was decided that the attack should take place asap. They prepared timelines for troop deployment and distance with wind and ocean current charts. The conclusion was that the troops would be ready to deploy within the week, though actual deployment may take up to two weeks due to paperwork. The plans were set to begin within that period.

* * *

><p>Deployment occurred a week and two days from the discussion. India, completely at ease with the bureaucracy, had somehow managed to expedite the process, making it possible for the restless troops to leave the tender mercies of their desks a whole week earlier than expected. The cheers that went out made it seem like they were going on vacation, not to war.<p>

The men had trained together for this, and the general sense of anticipation in the air had only solidified the feelings of camaraderie between the troops.

India sat next to China for most of the Voyage, discussing tactics and other means to achieve victory; the ships had managed to catch a good tide and were slightly ahead of schedule. It was as if the oceans were helping them win. They were at the American coast two days early. Their immediate action was to contact the Spanish commander in Mexico to discuss putting their plans into action.

After the conversation, the two nations moved separately to prepare for the battle. China left to move the troops into place. India made a phone call. She called home to finish the sabotage of the American economy. Her phone call was the signal that was needed to start the breakdown of the American IT and service industry. Hackers in India and China were actively interfering in the information flow between American agencies, including the CIA, FBI and army. The average person was unable to access the news or the internet, and the call centres were all down. America was gripped by chaos.

Time would tell if this two-pronged attack would be successful or not, but for now all India knew that they had poked a dragon, starved and baited it. They were dancing within its jaws reach now, and all that was left was to see if they became dragon slayers or prey.

* * *

><p>Back together, China watched as India paced. He leaned back in his seat, "India, stop pacing, it doesn't help."<p>

"Shut up China," She growled, "This is how I deal with stress."

'England survived this for hundreds of years?' Thought China, 'I have to respect him for that.' Aloud, he said, "You need to conserve energy," She glared at him, "for the battle."

"We've put our nations on the line, China, I'm allowed to be nervous." China swallowed at the fire in her eyes, "but I suppose it isn't a fight if everything isn't on the line."

China shrugged, relived that she was no longer glaring at him, "All we can do now is our best, let what comes, come."

She smiled at him, "That is true, trust China to spout philosophy at a time like this though."

"Hey!"

"Whatever the future, I can't help but fear, though."

China slipped his arms around her shoulders, "All we have to do is win, and we'll be fine. If we lose, it'll have the same result as never having fought at all."

She shrugged off his arm, "If he wins, the world burns."

Ice had replaced fire in her eyes, the endless determination of an old nation, one that had felt oppression, and that oppression had only made stronger. She stopped pacing, and stood instead in the centre of the room. She took a deep breath. Finally, she turned to China, looked straight in his eyes, extended her arm and spoke.

"May our alliance hold, our blood sing as one, our enemies be crushed and our wealth multiply."

China gripped her forearm and responded, "May our friendship shock the world, our strength surpass the stars, our people breathe as one and our dissenters turn to dust."

They had sealed their alliance in the old ways, ways which had been mostly lost to the modern world. Apart from them, only the Italy brothers, and the British brothers were old enough to remember the old ways. Prussia might have been able to remember, as could Austria and Switzerland, but they would have been too young to remember all of it. China couldn't remember the last time anyone had sealed their alliance in this manner, and he was the oldest of them all.

The sealing of an alliance in this way, rather than the less binding method of their rulers' preference, forced mutual assistance and loyalty for as long as the alliance was mutually held. The binding left bi room for conspiracy or betrayal.

China blinked and regained his focus. This alliance just exemplified the importance of this war, and India's desperate need to survive. He took a deep breath and said, "Let's go, we have a war to win."

She nodded, running a finger through her ebony hair, "We should speak to England before we make our move. We should coordinate the attacks."

China smiled, "We should eat something first. That pacing must have built up an appetite."

She scowled playfully at China but nodded nonetheless saying, "Oh alright."

They walked down to the mess on the ship, chatting the whole way. Seeing them calm and reasonably pleasant raised the morale of all the soldiers. If their nations were not afraid, they had no reason to be either. The stress level of the ship had dropped considerably, and the men calmed before their war began. This was the slow pull before the shove.

India was finally clear-minded on what was necessary. China was chowing down on his noodle-soup, concentrating on ensuring his uniform stayed clean, but all India could think off was the fight up ahead. Finally she sighed and dug her heels in. This was the long haul. She picked up her spoon and began to shovel food into her mouth, she'd need the strength later. China glanced up at her, smiling, and she glared back.

The clock on the wall showed 17:00 hours, they had to prepare for their teleconference with England. The attack was to take place at 21:00 PST, but their conference with Spain was at 20:10. Before they spoke to Spain, they had to finish planning with England, and that conference was at 19:30.

Promptly at 19:00, both China and India plonked themselves in the Tele-conference room and waited for England. They talked as they waited, comparing England in this war to England at the height of his empire. From what they could see, the main difference was in emotion. The England at the height of his empire was a broken man. He felt little for anyone, his eyes were constantly cold, and he served his government unflinchingly. By the time the world wars had rolled around, he was going back to himself, recovering from his scars.

By the end of both wars, he was happy to let go of his empire if they wanted to leave. India couldn't help but think that those scars existed in part because of America, that England would never have focused on her if not for the revolution in America. Some part of her was glad of it. China mostly agreed with her, sometimes adding points she had missed. He mentioned how homesick Hong Kong got, and how he wished England was allowed to see the boy in person. His government had not permitted it.

Their conversation was interrupted by the video call. Prompt at 19:30, England was there.

"Hello." He said, voice betraying his exhaustion. At their raised eyebrows he added, "It's been a long day of fighting."

China nodded, "So shall we wrap this up quickly to let you sleep." There was sarcasm in his voice, but England ignored it.

"Are you prepared?" His voice broke on the last syllable showing that he really was beyond exhausted.

India decided it was a good time to butt in, before the two men decided to argue, "We sealed our alliance in the old ways, England."

England's tired eyes snapped open, and he looked between them as if trying to see something invisible. He hesitated, then. "I'd like to do so as well."

Surprised, India agreed. After a few moments' thought, so did China. England was the biggest player in this war, if he was willing to offer a binding alliance where he would be loyal and assist them as required, there was no loss possible.

Finally, after reviewing plans and matching watches, they parted ways at 20:00 exactly. They two nations (India and China) had 10 minutes to prepare for their conversation with Spain.

The pre-planning was simple enough and was done by 20:30. After that, everything was in motion for the final push. Every troop would begin to move at 21:00, a sudden push from the Canadians matched by an invasion of the south, America would be unable to counter. Their coordination would have to be perfect for this attack.

They all knew it too.

* * *

><p>China and India stood side by side on the deck watching the men prepare for the upcoming fight. 20 minutes to go. They each slipped into their own quarters to dress. 18 minutes to go. They looked over the map of coves and inlets one last time, marking their points of entry and exit and running their fingers over the writing. The map had been the combined product of the Mexicans and IndiaChina's local citizens before they had either left or been interred.

The final equipment checks were being done. 12 minutes now.

The men were wearing their new uniforms, combined forces, the colours were neither Indian nor Chinese, they were both and neither. The men were ready to leave now. Many would not return. India slipped her hand into China's tears running down both their faces as they felt what their people would define as patriotism. It wasn't though. For a nation, patriotism is no more than narcissism, what those two nations felt was love for their people, a love so strong that they would have given their lives a hundred times before letting any one of them die.

At 10 minutes to go, China and his men slipped off the ship into pre-prepared boats and moved towards the shore. India waved goodbye to the men from deck, dried her eyes and took command. Her fleet began to move.

By 20:55, China's boats were a good distance away from India's fleet, so they would not get caught up in a naval battle. By 20:59 India's fleet was visible from the beaches.

The Americans on shore spotted the large ships at 20:59 and assumed they were American. At 21:00, the Ships raised their flags as one and moved in to attack. Loosing their guns aimed at the Beach.

There was utter panic.


	11. Story of us All

Another War Chapter 11: Story of us all-

On the Canadian front, America was back with the Americans. He was mildly embarrassed at having been captured by his brother, but he now had reinforcements and he was pushing in on the Canadian border. Somehow, though, despite their numerical disadvantage, the Canadians were holding their ground. It was enormously surprising, but even though the Americans were winning more skirmishes, the Canadians just kept coming. For a country of very few people that was an amazing feat.

America was in for a surprise, at 20:30 on the 29th of January, a flood of British and Russian troops (fresh of the Alaskan battlefield) swelled the Canadian ranks. Following this influx of people, a pan European division of troops, speaking mostly French, happily joined in the fray. Still, the Americans were holding their ground, bringing the majority of their troops to push in on the Canadian front for a quick and decisive victory, and Alfred was sure that victory was on its way.

Suddenly, a burning sensation on Alfred's left arm alerted him that the Japanese were destroying his navy in the Pacific theatre. He focused on his troops all over the world in hopes that there were reinforcements available, but the Combined European Navy was holding his navy in the Atlantic in place, his base in the Indian Ocean was back in the hands of the locals, and his troops in the middle east had been 'politely' detained. He was trapped. America was barely hanging on. At 20:59, he was sent news of large ships of the coast of California. Before he could process the news, at 21:00, his world exploded in pain.

The Mexicans and Spanish-Portuguese troops had torn through the border to join up with the… Chinese?! Where did the Chinese troops come from?

The Indian Navy was camped on the shores on California, shooting merrily at all those who tried to stop them. Some of the Indian troops were ashore as well, raiding gun shops and sailing shops for ammunition and fishing rods? Were they planning to camp out there? The ammunition was one thing, but the fishing rods? What the fuck was going on there?

This was not supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen to the Hero! Alfred's every instinct told him to go to California, but his orders were to stay, and so he did. He blinked back the tears and the pain. He attempted to stand. He faltered. He swore. He fell. He swore louder. Finally after repeating this pattern seven times, a number Arthur would have found significant, he stumbled back to the front lines with his troops, bracing himself for the assault that would surely come now.

Somewhere between the night's fight and the morning, he fell unconscious.

…..

The moment England had news of the successful assault on California, that was well on its way to becoming the conquest of the southern USA, he gave a signal to the reserve troops to join the battle, and slipped into Canada's tent. The tent was cosy, containing a couch, a table, a chair, a bed and the entrance to an underground bunker. Matthew was sitting on or in none of them. The boy sat in a corner cuddled up to a map with a torch. The boy had a perfectly decent table and lamp for exactly that purpose.

Shaking his head, Arthur silently walked up to him and tapped him on his shoulder. Matthew jumped a mile.

"Papa! You surprised me!"

England hid a grin, Matthew would never call him 'Papa' on a battlefield were he not surprised. He kept his face stern and looked down at the boy. "Be more alert on a battlefield boy."

Matthew blushed and looked at his shoes, obviously ashamed of his behaviour.

Arthur sighed, "The south was won a few moments ago. They've split their troops. They're panicking. It is time."

Matthew swallowed. England's face was grim and cold. Gone was the concerned father. This man would not forgive mistakes on the battlefield. Matthew hated seeing his father like this.

"Yes sir." Matthew said clearly, knowing that this was no time for muttering, "I am ready with the locations to attack. At your word, Sir." Arthur poked his head out of the tent, and with a quick nod from him, the tent filled with the commanding officers.

"If we attack from the left and the front and pincer them from the back, we can push the Americans towards the cover of the trees and finish them" Here Matthew gestured at a wooded area filled with redwood trees. "The line will break and we'll have them in the palms of our hands."

The men nodded, taking Matthew's words at face value. A soft noise came from near them, and all heads turned to Arthur, keen to hear what he had to say.

"There will more than likely be retaliation." Said Arthur. "Brace yourselves for news of bombings or the like in your homes. We've weakened them, gentlemen, but not crushed them yet."

"What about our families, sir?" A shaking voice asked. Arthur shook his head helplessly.

"I'm sorry." He said, "but we are at war. We must all make sacrifices. All we can do is our duties and pray they will remain safe."

The men looked sick, the realization of the cost of war was beginning to hit them. Matthew, though, was more focused on his father's face, which had paled a great deal over the last few moments… almost as if the man was clamping down on agony.

"The quicker we end this, the more lives we save and the higher the chances of your families' survival." Arthur added with a determined face. "I've given the order for the children to be taken out to sea on smaller boats during the day, the children will be out in the country at night. So they should avoid the worst of any attack."

The men nodded in unison, grim determination filling them as they thought to their families. They exited the tent and Arthur fell forward almost instantly.

"Gas." He gasped from within Matthew's arms, "The Bastards used gas. London, my beautiful London. At least the children were safe."

Matthew felt sick at the thought of death by gas, and the idea of the people of London dying from it. This was going way too far, even for Alfred. Slow death killed mercy, and Arthur would never forget it, never forgive.

…..

The slow rush to positions and the distribution of supplies, rations, canteens, first-aid kits, alcohol and ammunition was building a sense of anticipation in the camp and Matthew felt it build in his stomach as the constant thrum of a multitude of voices echoed "victory, victory" within him. Matthew had never felt it so strongly before, not even in 1812 when America had attacked him and his people wanted revenge.

His men were ready now, and America was tottering on unsteady feet. It was time to bring them to their knees. Arthur was leading the troops through the plan, as always, leading from the front, carefully ensuring their success through words and actions. Matthew could still see a trace of pallor on his face from the gas bombs, but he was going strong.

They camped in the small forest waiting for the Americans to regroup there. All the while, their constant feed of information was telling them that the south was surrendering to the Spanish, Indians, Portuguese, Chinese and Mexicans one state at a time, completely overwhelmed.

The north and south were both pushing in now, waiting for America to do something stupid. They were not disappointed when the Americans regrouped as close to the forest as they could, hoping they would be able, with their much reduced forces, to launch a counterattack. Needless to say the combined French/Canadian/British/Russian troops made quick work of them, throwing their whole arsenal of weaponry at them to have a swift victory.

In the end, the battle was over in under two hours, and all that was left to do secure victory was to capture Alfred. Unsurprisingly, Alfred was nowhere to be found. Matthew believed this had something to do with the fact that his people believed they had a chance of victory as long as he was free and had secreted him somewhere. However, the men that were interrogated informed the nations that Alfred was, in fact, on a naval base now—he was helping to set off the bombs. The nations had searched all America before concluding that a naval base was the only possibility. The thought of Alfred setting off the gas bombs was especially disturbing for England, for whom the gas attacks had been hellish.

Unable to waste resources on the search any longer, the victorious nations went back to securing America. This was an extremely hard task given the patriotism of the locals and the itchy trigger fingers on the winning side. The troops had all lost someone in the war, whether this was a friend who fought beside them or family at home, and were as hostile to the locals as the locals were to them.

It was England that had sorted out the problem by giving the troops a stern talking too and shaming them into good behaviour. The talk was reminiscent of the scolding Matthew and his siblings used to receive for disobeying rules or breaking things in the house, and the soldiers came out feeling like children. As for the Americans, they settled down after their guns were forcibly confiscated and a few people were shot while trying to attack the troops. After a few weeks, the nation settled down and obvious hostility turned to quiet grumbling.

They needed to find Alfred. Soon. Bombs were still falling, God knew how many America had in storage, and were landing on every country, India, Japan, Chin, Denmark, South Africa, everyone.

* * *

><p>Finally, after weeks of searching, some genius decided it would be appropriate to mention that Cuba had not yet recaptured Guantanamo Bay. All the nations had been so focused on the US proper and on the old naval bases that they had overlooked the tiny island. Also, the island was full of people hostile to the USA, and no one could understand how or why that would suddenly change. Still, it was their best bet to stop the bombs.<p>

It was still a tiny island, and no one island could hold out against the whole world, England should know, after all, and he was sure that the island would fall soon enough.

England was also certain that Alfred was not going to be on the island. He spoke to Matthew about it, and the two agreed that the Americans would not have put their only hope for freedom in that kind of danger. Arthur was pretty sure he would be on the open ocean, in an undiscoverable vessel. Arthur was also sure that given the invasion, Alfred would be in a coma, and could not have gotten far. Arthur looked to his radar, sonar and weather reports for answers.

England had constant reports of the fighting at Guantanamo Bay from both Cuba and the troops he had sent to help him. The fighting lasted a week and soon the island was secured. The prisoners were recaptured, the soldiers were arrested and the island was searched. There was no trace of Alfred.

England was getting stressed. There had been no sign of Alfred for months, the island had no trace of him, the men didn't know what had become of him. He could not have died from the attacks, could he?

Finally, a week after the recapture of Guantanamo Bay, Arthur looked to older methods of sailing, ones that wouldn't show up on radar. Wood ships. After a little investigating, it was discovered that a museum piece, an old pirate ship that had been made seaworthy for demonstrations to tourists, was missing.

An evil grin on his face, England found himself another seaworthy pirate ship, loaded the cannons, stocked the ship, and, in full pirate garb, went on a hunt for the missing ship.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-. -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-. -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-. -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-. -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Matthew… didn't know what to think. He had just seen his father (wearing pirate clothes) off. He had convinced the older man to install a radio (at the very least) in his ship so they could stay in contact. The suggestion had originally been met by a horrified face and raised brows, but the concession had finally been made when Matthew broke out the puppy-dog eyes. He saw this trip as a wild goose chase, but his father was adamant, and Matthew decided that England did need a break.

After a few weeks, the search yielded no results and Matthew was sure his father would return home, but instead, the older man had gotten more interested in the chase than ever, attacking it with more enthusiasm than Matthew had ever seen him possess.

A month into the search and Matthew was glad his dad was gone during the constant squabbling and politicking that seemed to have become a recent craze. It was a wild goose chase but one that kept his father away from committing murder, something Matthew, the most patient of nations, was close to doing.

A month and two weeks into the search, and Matthew was informed that his father had captured Alfred and was bringing him to the hospital.

…..

Arthur discovered an old pirate ship skirting an island late one evening. The crew obviously knew nothing of tides or sea travel on this kind of ship, but they were managing to stay afloat. That was something at least.

With patience and care developed over years of practice and fine tuning (mostly while stealing Spanish gold) Arthur sneaked his ship closer to the other one under cover of darkness.

'Not even a lookout,' thought Arthur, shaking his head at their foolishness, 'well all the better for me then!'

Carefully, he manoeuvred his ship so his cannons would face the other ship without sinking it, a rather hard prospect, and started bombarding the other ship.

The speed of Arthur's victory said more for the inexperience of the enemy crew than anything. The fight was over within a ten minutes; the enemy crew (Marines) surrendered to Arthur to protect Alfred from further injury and were taken into custody (placed in Arthur's convenient brig) instantly. Alfred was carried onto Arthur's ship and gently laid on a bed in the captain's quarters as Arthur rushed to get back to dry land.

Upon arrival, Arthur placed Alfred on a stretcher and carried him to the hospital personally. While this was happening, the discussion (fighting) on what to do with Alfred began anew. Arthur remained oblivious, eyes and mind fixed only on Alfred.

…..

The silence in the hospital was overwhelming. The ward, filled by American soldiers, couldn't believe that the British general who had defeated them would play nurse to their former leader, and play the role so lovingly too. The blood was wiped off with a careful soft cloth, wounds dressed with gentle bandages, gentle hands wiped sweat off the fevered forehead and changed sheets as required. The person doing all of that could not be a soldier, and an enemy one at that. This could not be the same man who had fought them and killed without mercy. This man was acting like a concerned parent, fluttering around his fallen enemy as if worried about him. The men couldn't believe it. They waited patiently, every day, for the other shoe to fall.

Finally, a week in, they believed the end of the farce had come when the general stormed into the ward with an expression of rage on his face. They were subsequently shocked when he fell into his usual seat beside Jones, buried his face into the blankets and began to cry. His hands were fists on the sheets and he was really crying, choking on his own breaths as he wept uncontrollably. No one could understand it. A few hours later, the weeping had turned to soft sobs, then to little gasps. As the general had begun to compose himself, a man who looked identical to Jones walked in.

"They've stopped now, dad." Said the man, voice soft, "They were just being stupid. They wouldn't really…" He broke off, glancing at Jones, "Right?"

The general shook his head, "Your naivety is going to be the death of you Matt." He smiled bitterly at 'Matt', "They hold grudges better than anyone I know."

'Matt' just looked at the man, "They wouldn't. They know it'd break you."

"Then I'd just be paying for my part in this mess. I should have pulled the trigger that day."

"You don't…"

"No."

"I had to ask, dad."

"I know, love."

"I wish he'd wake…"

"I do too, dearest, but it will take time."

Matt sat beside 'dad' and watched Jones for a while. Finally, after a few hours, he spoke. "Even after all of this, I love him, dad."

"I do too, Matt, I just hope he knows it."

"He does, dad. I'm sure he does."

The two continued to sit in silence for the rest of the day. They finally left late in the night. The next day, the general came at his usual time, sat in his usual spot and kept Jones company. The men slowly got used to the pattern, the General would come over in the morning, some days, Matt would join him, some days he'd be alone. Every day, unfailingly, he'd be there.

Two months passed without Jones so much as twitching an eyelid, but finally, one morning (a Saturday, if anyone cares) Jones began to move. The general nearly choked on a sausage before calling a nurse to check on Jones. An hour or so of doctors checking on Jones, and at last, Jones' eyelids fluttered open. He was given a glass of water and left to the General's tender mercies.

Jones blinked a few times, "War over then?"

"Yes." Replied the general, massaging his temples, "You've been asleep four months, Alfred, two of them in that bed."

"We lost then."

"You did, yes."

"Is Matt okay? Are you?"

"Matthew is perfectly fine, and I am recovering."

"Recovering from what?" Asked Jones, eyes wide.

"Gas bombs over Britain." Said the General, voice icy.

"I'm sorry."

"I know you had nothing to do with it, lad," The General waved a careless hand at the boy, "but Francis, 'Tonio and the others want your head for it."

Jones' face went pale. "No, please, no."

"I won't let them, lad, you know I won't."

"Dad. Dad. I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't want. Not like this." Jones was crying now.

The general held Jones against his chest a moment, smoothing a hand over Jones' hair, "I know, child. Hush now. Rest my darling, you need to save your strength, you'll need it for the inquisition you're going to face for this."

Jones nodded, leaning back into his pillows, "You'll stay?"

The general snorted gently, mussing Jones' hair again and smiled at him, "As long as you want." He leaned over and kissed Jones' forehead.

"Goodnight Dad." Murmured Jones, eyes falling shut.

"Night, Angel." Said the general, eyes moist. The general stayed the rest of the day, sitting as he always did, showing no change in his behaviour. The men were beginning to like the man.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- x-x-x

Three days after Jones woke, there was a change in pattern. The general was followed into the room by a Frenchman and a Spaniard who apparently wanted to question Jones. The general (the men finally discovered he was named Arthur) wouldn't have any of it, and sent both men packing. It was an interesting sight, and it made Jones grateful.

"I've bought you a few day's time, Al." Arthur muttered to Jones, nudging him over and flopping down beside him, "They won't let this go though, you know that."

Jones nodded with a tired frown, "Dad…" he whispered. "Am I going to die?"

"Not if I have a say." Arthur put his arm around Jones, pulling him closer.

"Thanks…" said Jones, cuddling quite willingly to Arthur.

Arthur cleared his throat, "Yes, well, Matthew wants to see you alive, dear." Clearly the man was trying to change the subject, "It might help if you stop pretending you are asleep every time he visits. He's starting to get worried."

Jones pale face suddenly flushed, "What can I say to him, dad? We tried to murder each other."

"And we didn't?" Arthur raised a bushy eyebrow

Jones giggled at the expression, caught himself, flushed again and said, "Yes, you're right, but…"

"You managed after 1812, you'll manage now." It was an order, not a helpful remark. Arthur was losing patience.

"Yes dad."

"Good."

So time passed. The men were sure that Jones would be questioned sooner rather than later, but days passed and no one came. The men decided that Arthur must have gotten a foot in the door long enough to slow the process down.

Days turned to weeks, many of the men were called to trials, a good many managed to escape with a few angry glares, some were jailed, some sent to the noose for being guilty of something the victors called immoral or against humanity. The trials were as fair and unbiased as possible. The victors did not flaunt their power or abuse the laws. They tried their utmost to be courteous and extend the blanket of 'innocent till proven otherwise' to all the men. Almost all of the time, they followed international law to the letter.

As time passed, Jones steadily recovered from his injuries and gained some colour in his cheeks. Finally, nearly a month to the day since the previous visit of the 'interrogators' (as the men had labelled them), Jones' trial began. Apparently international law would not be followed in this trial.

The Spaniard from before was channelling the inquisition era, holding a knife in one hand and chains in the other. The Frenchman next to him seemed intent on flogging Jones for his crimes. The men, lying in their beds could only pray for Jones.

Finally, Arthur walked in the room. To everybody's surprise, the Frenchman escorted him to a seat opposite where Jones was chained. Jones and Arthur fixed their eyes on each other. Then the screaming began.

Jones screamed for two hours without pause. Arthur watched the whole time, hands tightly gripping the arms of his chair. They were breaking apart from the force of his grip. Arthur was crying. This was as much a punishment for him as for Jones.

Finally, he snapped. "For god's sake stop, Francis. The lad just recovered from his wounds and we don't need him in another coma."

The Frenchman gave him a measuring glance, "Mon ami, are you trying to speed up your own sentence? Or to increase it?"

"Will you stop hitting the boy?"

"Non. Not unless you agree to an increased sentence for yourself. Your delaying tactics call for it."

"Very well. Just stop."

The Spaniard was the one to move. He tugged Arthur out of his seat, ripped his shirt off, pushed Arthur to his knees. The Frenchman began to whip him.

Jones' eyes were wide in his face as Arthur was whipped for half an hour without pause. He made no sound, looking for all the world as if this was an everyday occurrence. After the whipping stopped, the Spaniard put his knife to Arthur's throat. "We agreed to unite our powers under you, but that does not mean we will not beat the sense into you of you force your will on us all. Comprende?"

Arthur nodded, "Continue." He said, voice hoarse. "My brothers will be satisfied with no less."

The Frenchman hesitated. "It is enough. A river of blood is gushing down your back, mon lapin."

A bitter laugh came from Arthur's mouth, "It's barely a stream, frog face. Do go on, they'll only do worse later if you don't."

The Frenchman nodded and brought the whip down on Arthur's shoulder blades. He choked back a whimper. The lashing resumed for another 50 minutes. By the end, Arthur's whole back was welted and bleeding, from his shoulders down to the small of his back. The Frenchman was nearly in tears by the end. "Is this enough, Cherie?"

The Spaniard put his face in his hands. "Amigo, we have done enough. You are punished for your delays."

Arthur nodded, face tired, and waved the two to the door. They left, looking back every few seconds before they were out of sight. When they were finally gone, Arthur pushed himself up with a gasp as his injuries stretched. He carefully put on his shirt before looking to Jones.

"Your full trial will be a week from today, Alfred." He said, brushing his shirt off. "Be prepared."

"The world council, dad?" Jones' voice was shaking.

Arthur glanced up at Jones for an instant and looked away. "Yes." He whispered, finally looking at Jones. "Alfred, they're pushing for death." Arthur's voice was broken.

"Oh" said Jones, no inflection in his voice.

Arthur got up to leave, but Jones stopped him.

"Where are you going?"

"Home, lad."

"At least grab a nurse and get those cuts disinfected, old man!"

Arthur laughed, voice booming in the ward. "Dear child." He said warmly, "I've dealt with worse for years before you were even a thought!"

Jones looked embarrassed, worried, angry and stressed. It made for an interesting sight.

"Thank you for caring, though, darling."

He departed, leaving Jones to fret about both his health and the upcoming trial.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x. x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Every day following the torture, the men watched Jones carefully for any sign of resistance or rebellion. Hell, at that point they'd have settled even for fear and frustration. They saw none. Despite his ever-nearing trial and the death sentence hanging over his head, Jones remained calm, even peaceful, as the days passed.

There had been one huge change since the 'inquisition' (as the men had dubbed it), Arthur's visits, which had been regular as clockwork, slowed to an uncertain trickle. He rarely spoke when he did visit, and he stayed for barely an hour each time. At first, the men feared that this marked the return of 'the general' from the war, but as the observed him and took in his pale face and desperate glances, they began to change their minds.

The men were sure, as the day of the trial neared, that Arthur would be unable to save Jones. They were glad he wanted too, though, since that meant that there was hope for America yet.

The night before the big day (i.e. the trial) Arthur came to the room late in the evening and knelt beside Jones' bed.

"Dad!" said Jones blinking sleep out of his eyes, "You're not supposed to be here, are you?"

"Where else would I be, child?" Asked Arthur fixing Jones with a mirthless grin for an instant before muttering, "I don't know how tomorrow is going to turn out. Most of the world wants your head on a bloody pike, Alfred. Preferably with extra blood and guts on the side. That list includes my siblings and yours!"

Jones had paled, bowed his head, and nodded. He could do nothing else and he knew it. His hands fisted in the sheets.

"Let me stay, Alfie." Arthur's voice cracked on the last syllable, "I need to be here."

Jones nodded again, and Arthur closed his eyes and put his head on Jones' sheets. Jones' eyes widened as he took in his father's head on his lap, but he relaxed and leaned back, allowing himself to fall asleep.

Hours later, the men watched as Arthur sat beside Jones running his fingers through Jones' hair. The expression on his face was gentle and sad. The scene was both ironic and heartrending—their roles in the war, enemies, was in direct conflict to the emotions clearly etched on their faces when they saw one another. The next day would bring the fate of all America on their shoulders, but the men couldn't help thinking that however it ended, the two men in their little bubble of a world would lose each other.

The soldiers, for that was what they were, even battered and defeated, felt a great deal of respect for Arthur. Enemy or not, dangerous or not, the man had been a force on the battlefield and a good man off it. They could appreciate that he was forcing himself to continue doing his duty, even though it was obviously breaking his heart. Somehow, they all hoped that, whatever happened the next day to their nation, Alfred would not die. Enough parents had lost their children in this battle already.

So as day broke over the sleepless hospital room, and Arthur rose to leave, the soldiers might have nodded at him (the first acknowledgement they had made of him). Later when he was at the door and turned to look back at Jones, they might have saluted him (and if his eyes popped and mouth slackened in shock and he nearly fell over, they might have laughed at him). In the end, the soldiers felt mostly content with themselves.

A few hours later, Jones was awake. The men made encouraging noises at him and slapped him on the back a few times. They had done all they could, and they knew it. A strange sense of contentment settled on the hospital room while they watched Jones button his shirt (Matthew's shirt, one Matthew had brought in and gifted to Jones) with trembling hands. They watched as he slid into pants that were loose (they were once tailor made for him, a gift from Arthur) and pulled his glasses on. They looked around helplessly, trying to think of words to say to Jones. They could think of none. There was no more they could do; the rest was up to the world. The men watched in silence as Jones pulled on his suit, took a deep breath and turned sharply towards the door, forcing himself to walk out of it with jagged stuttering steps.

The door was shut.

Then he was gone.

* * *

><p>An: Right, sorry this chapter is late, but I was travelling. So won't be uploading on this story for at least two weeks. I'm finishing a chapter on my other fic, To Begin Again, please read it as well.

Also, I'd like to thank my reviewers, their feedback has made writing so much easier (and more fun)

Onto fun stuff then. I don't own Hetalia, or England, or France or America or Spain... well you get the idea. If i did own them, you'd know *insert evil laugh of your choice here*

Bye bye.

xx

TTHF


	12. Trial

Chapter 12: Trial

Locked in a quiet cell, America didn't quite know what to expect. The shadow of the bars fell on his face as he lay, body curled tight, on the sheet that had been laid on the floor—some parody of a mattress. He heard footsteps in the distance and surged to his feet, stumbling as sudden weariness took over his body. A snort came from the direction of the door. He looked up.

"Ye look tired, laddie." The voice sounded amused. America stared at the man, trying to remember where he had seen him before, but all he could think of was a confused haze of red and blue, and a desperate cry. He stared harder, taking in the man's red hair and green eyes, he'd seen those on Ireland before, but this was different. The man's frame was broader, and he was more scarred. He had a scar down his left cheek that sort of looked like a bayonet had scratched… oh! That was it. This was Scotland. America shook his head to clear it, and glanced up at the man—Scotland—again.

"You…You're Scotland, right?" He asked, voice shaking slightly.

"On the nose, laddie." Scotland grinned. "The wee one said you would be able to tell who I was, given time. Guess he was right."

"Wee one?" America shook his head. Now was hardly the time to wonder. "Is it time for the trial?"

"Aye." The grin widened, and those grey-green eyes gleamed. "It is. And you'd best hurry. The beasts are hungry."

America couldn't help himself, he trembled. He grabbed his coat, smoothed his shirt as best he could, and stumbled to the doorway. "Right. Okay. I'm ready."

"Ahh, that you are, lad." Said Scotland, making no move to open the door. "But perhaps I'm not."

"What?" America rattled the bars. "What the hell do you mean you're not ready?"

"Manners, laddie. Mind them." Scotland's smile fell away. "Why should I want you there on time? Think of the trouble you'll face if you've made them wait."

America paled. He could clearly imagine his fate if he upset the people who held his life in their hands. "Please." He whispered. "Please let me out. I'm begging here."

Scotland met America's eyes. "I remember, once, my brother pleaded with you not to leave him." Scotland's eyes turned flinty. "I remember him on his knees in front of you, throwing away his pride to set you free." Scotland's face twisted. "I remember you shooting him. Your own father, lad, and you shot him in the heart."

America turned away, unable to meet Scotland's eyes.

"Tell me, laddie, why should I do you any favours?" Scotland almost spat the last word out.

"I…I don't. You don't. I can't." America shook his head.

Scotland sighed, and unlocked the door. "I'll tell you what, lad." He said as the door swung open. "Be grateful that your pain will only hurt him more, else you'd still be in that cell."

America nodded. "Thanks."

"I'll make this clear again," Scotland pulled America's face up by his chin. "I am not doing this for you. I just don't want my brother hurt any more." He let go. "You ever hurt him again, and I will personally ensure that your life turns into a living hell. Are we clear?"

"Yessir." America nodded quickly and repeatedly. "Perfectly." As the two began to walk up the stairs America added. "I don't ever want to hurt him again anyway."

Scotland's snort of disbelief was the last thing he heard as he entered the courtroom.

-x-x-x-

America did not know what to make of the whole charade, the flow of 'confidential' information across the courtroom, from documents and witnesses, simply to drive the point home. He had known he was screwed before walking into the courtroom, so he didn't understand the point of all the 'procedure'. Perhaps it was to prolong the agony, or maybe it was to publicise the entire shameful affair.

America chanced a glance at France's face, and suddenly, the answer was clear. They were enjoying watching him squirm, watching him suffer through the entire testimony. America's eyes slipped sideways to meet England's. They both looked away. Shame settled into America's gut as he noted the pure exhaustion that permeated every line of England's face. With a swallow, he looked away, refocusing on the trial, but not even the images brought up by the testimony could erase his father's exhausted face from his mind.

At the end of the day, he was escorted back to his dingy cell. He shivered as he curled back into a ball on his thin blanket of a mattress. The seasons were changing, and the wintery breeze that ripped through the cell refused to let him rest. As the door on top of the stairway slammed shut, America was bathed in darkness. It was a new moon night, and the cloudy skies allowed no light through. America was still terrified of the dark, scared that monsters and ghosts (that England swore were real, that he had seen) would attack him. And now, he was without defences. England would not come to save him, and no one would be able to hear him cry—and no one would care if he did cry, except to rub salt into his wounds. He cried till he had no energy left, then drifted off into a fitful sleep.

-x-x-x-x-

Six days after the trial had begun, the sun rose on its final day. Locked in a stone cell, two reddish-blue eyes were clearly glad. This would be the final day that he would be defending himself against the various accusations against him. He knew that there was no chance he would get off, but there was a chance the charges would be mitigated if he played his cards right.

He stretched in his cell, knuckles grazing painfully against the ceiling. He swore, brushing off flecks of blood from his knuckles, and slipping on his slightly tattered coat. He stood straight in the centre of his cell, trying to look dignified, or at the very least, to look a little less than terrified. He knew he had failed when he heard a very familiar snort at the door. His escort was here. America slumped, head finding a home in the palms of his hands, as he tried not to sob.

He suddenly felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He tensed, expecting to be pulled upright, but the hand moved to cup the back of his neck.

There was a sigh. "Up, lad." Scotland's voice was gruffer than usual. "Court's a-waiting."

America made a choked sound and his body shuddered.

The hand on his neck squeezed gently. "C'mon, laddie. Not much longer now."

America forced himself upright to meet Scotland's eyes. There was no flinty glare today, no sadistic grin, just a gentle smile.

"Why aren't you making this harder?" America whispered.

"You really want me to?" Scotland shook his head. "Your day will be hard enough."

"But…it's you."

"Aye. It is." Scotland sighed. "Call it a mercy to my brother's brat."

"Al…right." America forced his feet to move forward. The Scot's gentle behaviour had been all the proof he needed. His fate was sealed. He was a dead man walking, and the scot was going to get all the revenge he wanted at the end of the day.

As America managed to move up the stairs into the courtyard, he noted that it was a clear day. Beautiful, full of life, even the birds were singing. It was almost as if his own land was revelling in his upcoming death. As he took the final steps into the courtroom, he spared a thought as to whether this was how the nations he had brought to their knees had felt. This swirl of fear and helplessness, mixed with a sense of finality.

-x-x-x-x-

England was preparing his papers for court. Today they'd hear America's 'defence'. Somehow, England didn't think that pleading insanity or diminished capacity would impress the court. A quick glance at his fellow judges confirmed his suspicions, and he nodded to himself. Proper procedures his left bollock, they were using the trial as a means to tear America into pieces—completely legally, of course. They were as bloodthirsty as ever, they had just changed gears—from battle to trial, war to politics. America would have to think fast and talk faster to avoid becoming mincemeat. Hopefully the lad knew it too. A quick sigh later England was walking towards the main hall. He walked to the raised table and sat himself down on his chair—centre—arranged his notes and poured himself some water and waited.

Alfred entered half-a-step before the other judges did. The lad glanced up at him as he took his seat. Judging by Alfred's eyes, he had done little sleeping and much crying the previous night. England's arms itched to embrace him, but he clamped down hard on the instinct. This was neither the time nor the place.

England glanced at the other judges, they were ready. With a sharp nod, the trial was underway.

Alfred's voice shook slightly as he began speaking, but became calmer and clearer as he fluttered through his papers, carefully going through his arguments. He called forward a number of people who testified as to America's role in the war. The judges were mostly unmoved.

After a short break for lunch, England noticed that Alfred had shifted gears. He was intent on getting the charges for the gas attacks dropped. Given that he had evidence that he knew nothing about the gas, and that he was unconscious during the attacks, there was little that could be said against the claim. The charges were dropped with little open protest. England repressed a smile, the charge had been some of the worst against America, and with them dropped, America actually had a chance of coming out of this alive.

During the England-instituted break for tea, England found America slumped against the water cooler, obviously trying to calm himself. England approached him.

"Well done Alfie." England said, voice gentle.

America raised his eyes to meet England's tender face, and coloured slightly.

England continued "You caught the other two off guard with your tactics. They were honestly surprised you had all that evidence. I'm impressed."

"Thanks." Alfred's voice was hoarse. "I thought…"

"What?" England's eyebrows rose in concern.

"That judges were not allowed contact with the defendant."

"Yes, well…" England coughed and flushed. "You looked completely miserable this morning."

Alfred snorted. "I didn't sleep."

"I could tell, child." England threw Alfred an exasperated look.

Alfred's face turned completely red. "I missed you." He whispered to Arthur, unconsciously reaching out to the older nation.

England took his hand and squeezed it. "Hush, darling." He whispered back. "It will all be over soon."

"M scared dad." Alfred's hand was shaking and his eyes were filling with tears. "Real scared."

The tears overflowed from Alfred's eyes, and England drew him close, holding him silently, giving the only support and comfort he could. They both knew that England couldn't chase away these monsters. Not anymore.

"Just do your best in there, Alfie." England murmured. "You can do it. It's your life on the line."

Alfred flinched against England's chest, but he nodded.

As the final stretch of the trial was set to begin, England wiped Alfred's cheeks dry with his thumb. Alfred took a deep breath, turned, and marched back into the main hall.

England returned to his seat cradling a cup of tea, and gestured for the trial to begin.

The trial went on for a half hour before England felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, and his eyes met another pair of green eyes. Scotland was leaning against the table, using England's shoulder as a crutch. With a sigh, England called the trial to a halt and turned to his brother to see what the problem was.

England raised an eyebrow at his brother. "What is it?"

"Someone." Scotland gasped. And England glanced down at Scotland's other hand for the first time. It was covering his stomach, stemming a waterfall of blood. England's eyes widened as Scotland fell forward, crashing against the table as he went.

* * *

><p>Alfred was frozen in place. The scene at the judges' table had the courtroom in a frenzy. Through the chaos, Alfred caught a glimpse of a familiar glint of silver. Gun. He followed its trajectory and paled. It was aimed at England's head. Unthinking, he reacted, mind racing with images of Arthur's smile, his gentle hands, his kind face and warm arms. Desperation, love and fear collided as Alfred rammed into Arthur. The bullet rammed into both of them, and then there was silence. England groaned and Alfred hurt, arm in agony. The bullet had pierced both of them, through Alfred's arm and into England's chest.<p>

They lay side by side, bleeding together. The gunman stood still, an expression of utter shock on his face as he viewed the results of his bullet. Then Arthur groaned again and Alfred pulled himself off the ground, stumbling to his feet. He glanced up, and his eyes met France's. The ice had melted from those blue eyes, and they were wild for a moment as they took in the destruction before refocusing on America. France's face hardened for a moment as he looked at England's prone form, then he looked carefully at America and, apparently, came to a decision.

"Take him." France nodded to a door off the back of the hall, close to the judges' seats. "He cannot protect himself like that… I will follow with l'Eccose as soon I am able."

Alfred gave France a tight nod and bent over. He tugged his father into his arms, ignoring the ache from his injured arm, he stumbled into a graceless run, throwing himself through the door and running until he stumbled into a wall. Then he slumped against the wall, allowing exhaustion and blood-loss to hit him as the adrenalin receded. He was unconscious within a few moments.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Alfred woke to the sight of Matthew stitching up his arm. He heard a muffled shout and forced himself to sit up to see what was going on. He was met with the sight of his various siblings holding their father down while they extracted the bullet from his chest and stitched up the wound.

England's already bruised chest was not being helped by the surgery. America shoved himself to his feet, leaning heavily on Matt for support, and edged towards his father, who calmed significantly when he noticed Alfred approaching.

"Alfred." England reached towards him, and his siblings parted, albeit reluctantly, to let him through. Even if they hated him, they would not deny their father anything, least of all this. Keith glared at Alfred as he passed and Christopher wouldn't look at him, but all Alfred's attention was fixed on his father, whose face had broken into a gentle smile at the sight of Alfred.

Alfred knelt by his father's side. Within a moment, a gentle hand was on his head, ruffling his hair.

"Thank you, darling." Came the soft whisper.

Alfred could barely stay upright , but he leaned into the land on his head. "Are you alright, dad?" He whispered, as soon as he got his balance.

Arthur smiled. "Yes, lad. The bullet didn't really reach too deep." Arthur's eyes strayed to Alfred's arm for a moment, "The same cannot be said for your arm. I'm truly grateful, Alfred, for your help and presence of mind."

"You…froze." Alfred realised, and suddenly he couldn't stop himself from trembling. "There was a shooter in the room and you just…why?"

Alfred finally gave in to the hysteria that had been bubbling under the surface since before the trial had begun and began to sob uncontrollably. He found himself drawn closer to his father, and pressed his face into Arthur's shoulder, hands clenching in the fabric of Arthur's shirt back. He couldn't seem to stop crying, and his father continued to hold him, rocking him gently in his arms. Slowly, Alfred began to regain control, but didn't raise his head.

"Why'd you freeze dad?" Chris' voice was calm, even if it did sound slightly off key.

England sighed. "My mind blanked. Scotland was unconscious, bleeding all over my shoes, and I just…couldn't." He shook his head. "I'm sorry lad." His hand rose to stroke America's head.

Matthew flinched, it had been too close, he'd nearly lost both of them. "I think," He said in his soft voice. "That you've been a real hero today, Alfie."

Alfred shook his head, finally calm enough to raise his head. "Nah." He said, voice still watery. "It was absolute selfishness. I just wanted dad to be safe, if it'd been anyone else, I doubt I would have even moved."

Keith snorted. "You wouldn't have." There was an edge in his voice. "You've only ever done things that benefitted you. You've always been a spoilt, selfish, arrogant brat."

"Keith!" England's voice was angry. The room collectively flinched. "Apologize to your brother this instant."

"No." Keith's voice shook slightly, but he lifted his chin proudly.

"Keith Seamus Kirkland, apologize to your brother this instant, or so help me I will tan your hide so you can't sit for a month."

"Fuck you. I won't apologize for telling the truth."

"What did you say to me?" England's voice had gone completely cold. Both Matthew and Chris had edged as far away as they could, and America swallowed tightly.

"I said I won't fucking apologize."

"Before that, boy."

Keith finally noticed the tone of voice. "I said…" He paled. "I didn't mean…"

"I should certainly hope not. I raised you better than that." England smiled, but it was as cold as his voice. "First you insult my parenting skills by calling your brother spoilt, then you insult me directly… what am I to do with you?"

Keith swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"Perhaps I shouldn't have named you for Seamus." England's voice remained cold, but the smile slid off his face. "You're beginning to remind me of him during his rougher days."

"I didn't mean to insult you, sir." Keith's voice was shaking completely, and he backed away slowly.

"I'm 'sir' now, am I?" The voice had thawed, and was tinged with amusement.

"I'm sorry mum, I really didn't want to hurt you…I just…" Keith was on the verge of tears. "I'm sorry Alfred."

Alfred nodded. "Wasn't mad in the first place. You're right about me."

England sighed and crooked a finger at Keith. "Come here, you silly thing. I'm not angry at the moment."

Keith approached and slid into England's arms.

"The outback probably roasted your brain." Matthew stated, sticking his tongue out at Keith, who glanced back with an annoyed expression.

"No." Keith huffed waving a fist at Matthew. "Dad fried my brain with too many history lessons. I thought everyone knew that, right Chris?"

"Leave me out of this, Keith. I know how to pick my battles." Chris shifted from one foot to the other, trying his best to ignore his sibling.

"That scary am I, lad?"

"It's just easier if you aren't on the other side, is all." Chris muttered, shaking his head. "I love you too much to choose anyone else."

England smiled brilliantly and reached out for Chris. Chris came at once, kneeling by England and burying his face into the crook of England's neck. England shifted slightly so all of his children could sit close by him.

They made conversation for awhile, but England's eyes constantly strayed to the door and back again.

Finally after a few hours, France appeared in the shadow-light of the corridor.

"l'ecosse is safe and awake, if in a bad mood." France flicked a stray strand of hair from his face. Eyes fixed on England's face. "The gunman has been arrested. What do you wish to do with him?"

"What does Alba want?" Arthur shifted so he was face to face with France.

"His head on a pike and his entrails in a bowl." Sniffed France. "Ever the barbarian."

A grin quirked its way onto Arthur's face. "We'll always be barbarians to you, frog." The grin fell away. "Get España to do the questioning."

"Are you certain?" Asked France. "And are there any limits?"

"Tell Tonio that for the purposes of this interrogation, that man is a heretic, and this is his inquisition." Arthur smirked. "And if he survives the questioning, I want him hanged, drawn and quartered. Then Scotland can have the remaining bits to do as he pleases with them."

France shuddered. "I haven't seen this side of you in centuries, Cheri."

"Aren't you glad it isn't aimed at you this time?" Arthur's smirk dimmed. "But really, frog, I only have one rule, is it so hard to remember? No one touches my family."

"Non. It isn't hard." France sighed. "I shall have it done. I shall also send down some food and blankets. Good Night Cheri."

As France departed, England finally turned and noticed the terrified looks on his children's faces.

"Remind me never to upset you, dad." Matthew whispered.

"Yeah…" Muttered Chris, unable to form any further words.

"Too late for me," Shuddered Keith. "Now I'm really sorry I made you mad."

Alfred shrugged. "Always knew you were scary when you're mad." He tilted his head to a side. "By the way," He asked, slightly louder, "What's going to happen to my trial?"

The mention of the trial caused all attention in the room to be immediately focused on America, shaking off the after effects of the scary-England incident.

England sighed. "Hopefully," He began, raising a hand for silence. "Hopefully, you've done enough to mitigate your sentence from death to life."

Alfred flinched. "Life?" He ran a hand through his hair. "How does life work for a nation?"

England hesitated. "One of two ways." He said, voice shaking. He cleared his throat and focused his gaze on a corner of the room. "The first would strip you of being a nation. You would live out the rest of your life as a human either in prison, or, in the old days, as a slave. When you die, your remains are cremated and thrown into the ocean or a refuse pile, so you have no permanent resting place."

Alfred's face had gone horribly pale, his hand clenching and unclenching in a desperate attempt to retain control. "And…" He swallowed. "And the other way?"

"It is a crueller way." England shifted in his seat, returning his gaze to Alfred's. "But most nations prefer it." England twisted his hands together on his lap. "You remain a nation for the rest of your existence, but are bound, body and soul, to another nation." England cleared his throat. "The binding lasts only so long as the other nation lives." He clarified, "But once bound, you would be incapable of refusing them anything." England shuddered. "It was the preferred method of colonisation when I was a child. Rome used it often."

"Why would anyone prefer that?" The words slipped out of America's mouth before he could stop them.

"Because of the chance of freedom it offers in the long term." England replied.

"What would happen to my people in either case?" America asked, tugging at his hair.

"In the first case, they would have a war debt similar to Germany's after the First World War, and they would also have to build a new administration from scratch, and accept any and all conditions put to them by the victorious nations."

"They'd be suffering for centuries!" Alfred leapt to his feet and began to pace. "They'd never be able to survive…what about the second case?"

"Their suffering is the entire point, lad." Sighed England. "The second case…I don't want to lie to you, child. Your people would become the colonised people of whichever nation you are enslaved to. They will essentially be second-class citizens, almost slaves, for two or three generations. Then they will probably become equal to the other citizens of that nation."

Alfred's face brightened, then fell. "It won't be easy, will it?"

Arthur looked away mind clearly miles away. "I doubt it." He muttered. "If your people rebel, you will bear the brunt of the punishment. If you offend your master, you will be punished. Whichever nation you will be given to will want revenge and restitution, so…"

"They'll work me half to death." Finished Alfred. "But it gives my people a better chance…do you know if any nation has survived this slave thing?" Alfred asked softly.

"Quite a few have…" Replied England. "You're looking at one of them." This time his voice was bitter, self-hatred oozed from his posture, with slumped shoulders and hunched back.

"Dad?" Matthew's voice intruded on the conversation. "What do you mean?"

"I mean." The bitterness had seeped deeper into England's voice. "That when I was four years old, Rome invaded and bound me as his slave. I only escaped when he fell, but my people rebelled throughout, almost every day."

"He hurt you, didn't he mum?" Keith grabbed England's hand.

England looked at his eldest son, and knew he couldn't and shouldn't lie. "Yes, child, he did." The colour drained completely from Keith's face. Chris had slumped to the floor, and Matthew was sobbing into his hands. But now England had started, he could only go on. His eyes met Alfred's. "I was incapable of lying to him, hiding things from him or betraying him in any way. I was little more than a toy, and a disobedient one with a bad attitude at that, as he took great pleasure in reminding me as often as he was able." England blinked back tears. "He beat me often, branded me, burned me, and used me unspeakably…and I hated him. Even though he is long dead, I hate him still."

"I hate him too." Keith replied, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand, and gripping England's hand tighter with his other one.

England half-smiled. "I am grateful that he let me live, though." He sighed. "Killing me would have been personally kinder, but because I lived, my people were able to come through that horrid time, and rise to their greatest era." England took a deep breath. "When we became empires, we all agreed never to use that method of colonisation."

"'We' da?" Chris raised his head and asked. "who is 'we'?"

"Spain, Portugal, Netherlands, France and me. Later Belgium joined in too. It was the first agreement we made. It was the only one we ever kept with each other, too."

Chris made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, he, more than any of his siblings understood slavery, and the pain that came with it. England moved to Chris and pulled him into his arms, even though Chris was bigger than him, somehow it worked, and Chris was enfolded in England's embrace completely.

"I never wished that life on anyone, least of all any of you." England whispered, eyes fixed on Alfred.

Alfred shook his head. "I…if it means that my people have a better chance, I owe it to them to grab that chance and hold on with both hands, no matter what that means for me."

England inclined his head as he tucked Keith into his embrace as well, and tugged Matthew as close as he could with a single arm.

"After all," Added Alfred. "I don't know who would get me, right? I hope it isn't Russia, or Mexico, or Prussia…"

"Stop it." England's voice became sharp. "Come here, lad. This is a family dog pile, and you will be joining."

America nodded. Sliding forward to join in the family 'dog pile' by cuddling up to his father. They lay there until the food France had promised turned up with blankets in tow. The food and their hunger forced them to shift into a slightly less concentrated huddle, and dinner passed with England telling stories of America's youth, with France sometimes joining in to tell of Canada's various misadventures. No one mentioned the tenseness in England's shoulders or the redness in his eyes.

Finally, in the after dinner haze, England leaned back against the wall, and the children snuggled up to him, Alfred and Keith claimed a lap each, and Chris and Matthew each claimed a shoulder. England drew the blankets around them. As France departed, nearly overwhelmed by the cuteness, he heard England's voice singing a soft lullaby.

As America drifted off, he found himself praying that, should he live, that his new master would not take him away from England again. Even deeper in his heart of hearts was a wish he would never acknowledge, that England himself would be the one he was bound to. True it would be slavery, but England was still his father. America knew that if England could love him despite all his betrayals, he could love him as his slave. America allowed his mind to drift as the familiar lullaby echoed in his ears, who would have thought it? The largest and most powerful empire the world had ever seen had once been a slave…

But even that thought was unable to stay for long, as the lullaby weaved through America's consciousness and he drifted completely into sleep.


End file.
